The Beings We Are
by Lore or mess
Summary: When a lone vampire decided to save a baby from a wreckage in the middle of nowhere, he wasn't aware how his actions would change the life of one little boy. AU, PreHogwarts. MM Slash warning. Major crossover action: FF7/8, CSI:NY, Wild-Half, A, C.Geass
1. Chapter 1

**The Beings We Are **

By: Lore or mess.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, I just write fanfictions. Anything else that seems familiar is also coincidental.

Warnings: This story contains homosexual relationships. Lot's of 'em. If you are offended by this or in any way feel uncomfortable, you have the choice to continue reading or forego reading this story. The choice is yours. However, I will not entertain any sort of derogatory comments made concerning this issue. This warning has been posted.

**Chapter 1 **

**Hope for the Dead: Part I**

"Dad!"

Col jerked awake with a start, instincts alive and wild at the muffled yell. The body pressed up against his naked side stirred and gave a soft moan before snuggling closer to him. Col took a moment to remember the previous events and allowed himself to sink back into the bed with a tired sigh when he realized the situation he was in.

Two impatient knocks came from the door.

"Dad! The play starts in an hour! Get up!"

Another moan and Col felt an arm snake itself around his waist. He raised a hand to press against his eyes. Just how did he get himself into this again? Oh… right.

— _Hope for the Dead —_

Somewhere in the English countryside, flowers turned to face the East as though welcoming the impending sunrise. The dew from the leaves on the trees slowly vaporized into mist in the warming air. Animals woke to carry out their morning hunt. Birds greeted each other in shrill chirps. Indeed, the world was looking forward to yet another day, its beauty reaching its peak as first light approached. The sight of it all would have snatched away the breath of any who gazed upon it. Alas, such beauty was not meant to last, as a dark and ominous shadow flitted through the shades of the forest. Its shape would have made one mistake it for a giant bat of sorts, but it was no bat for it did not fly. No, it was a man, wearing a cloak so black and sinister that it flew behind him like wings. He moved so quickly, no human eye would have been able to discern his presence if they did not know that he was there. His feet made no sound as they treaded upon the forest ground. His eyes gazed ahead with determination. It was only from the barely noticeable frown on his forehead that one would be able to tell that he was worried.

'I must make haste. The sun is rising.'

Col added speed as he made the last few miles to his destination. The cottage came into view, surrounded by towering black pines. It was a fairly normal cottage, double storied and light brown with large windows. There was a tiny garden in the front, sporting odd plants that he could not recognize. By then, the sun had already ascended beyond the edge of the horizon and the very uncomfortable prickling on his back, which was facing the sun, was extremely good encouragement for him to get inside as soon as possible. Col didn't even trouble himself to try the front door. He merely leaped the way to the small balcony on the first floor and let himself in through the glass slides.

"A bit late this month. I hope nothing obstructed your journey."

A man was lounging on the queen size bed, wearing nothing but a cream-coloured cotton robe. His long blond hair fell around his face weightlessly as he looked up from a thick book to pierce Col with dark blue eyes. If he was surprised or indignant at him for having leaped into his bedroom while the man looked to be ready for bed, he didn't show it on his pale aristocratic face. Col shrugged off the remaining prickles on his back and moved closer to the bed after pulling the blinds into place to prevent the sunlight from entering.

"No, but the council had wanted to discuss and determine something before they sent me to you. It seems that three more vampires have been found dead. They want you to move to headquarters as soon as possible."

The man's face darkened. Whether it was caused by the news of the death of their kinsmen or by the subtle order given to him, Col wasn't sure.

"I'm sure we've been through this. I will not involve myself in politics or power-play. Submitting judgment is one thing but I will not relocate myself to headquarters, or anywhere, for that matter."

"Julian, it is no longer about simple power-play, it's become more than that. This war must be stopped. Too many of our clan have died, murdered by that crazed wizard. The council _needs_ your voice… and your presence. Head councilman Skayle said that he formally requests you to accept this invitation for he has dire news to deliver to you in person. He trusts no messenger to convey it."

A few moments passed as Julian stared at Col with an unrelenting expression. Then he sighed in resignation and got up from the bed to return the book to the shelf across the bedroom.

"Perhaps I am merely trying to hold onto the peace that I have finally acquired. So many years, so many wars have passed and I have been there to witness them. Perhaps I am merely stubborn in that I do not wish to a part of the bloodshed anymore."

Col said nothing to answer to Julian's quiet musings, knowing that he wasn't expected to. Still standing in front of the shelf, he saw Julian run his long, pale fingers down the spine of the book he had been reading. With his enhanced eyesight, Col could read the faded silver title printed upon the worn leather. It was a book on Old Norse folktales. He brushed aside his thoughts when Julian turned to face him.

"Stay the day. We leave at dusk."

— _Hope for the Dead —_

"This is an outrage! Are we about to lower ourselves to mere dogs?! There will be nothing left of our pride as vampires!"

"Calm yourself, Iago. We are merely saying that we should consider helping the wizards if only to vanquish Voldemort. We are not asking anyone to become 'dogs'…"

"HAH! Helping wizards! Have you forgotten how they treated us in the past? Hunting us down, branding us dark creatures! Filthy, evil vermin deserving a stake through the heart!"

"How can you ask us to help these… these ill-bred magic users!"

Julian observed his fellow council members with weary eyes. He had just only arrived at the vampire headquarters with Col and been shown his temporary room before a council meeting had demanded his presence. At first, all had been well, with Head Councilman Pearys Skayle reading the latest statistics on where the vampires stand in the war between Voldemort, the Light wizards and vampires. Everyone at the council table had given their views and ideas on how to advance in their position in the war. Then, everything went to hell when Pearys told of the plan to create an alliance with the Light wizards in order to defeat Voldemort.

"This is an insane proposal! Estar loco! Do not think for even a minute that any of the vampires would agree. There is simply no possible way that—"

"Perhaps we should hear out the head councilman's plan before making hasty assumptions. The final decision can wait till a later date."

Iago glared heated at Julian for a moment but nonetheless sat down to listen when all he received in return was a blank look. Pearys glanced sideways at Julian and gave him an appreciative nod.

"I have thought long about our current status, specifically concerning the scale of our forces. Unfortunately, no matter how I view it, we are at a disadvantage compared to the wizards. Voldemort would defeat us if only in sheer numbers. While we may be more powerful than them on an individual basis, should they decide to collaborate and attack, the result would be disastrous. I am sure all of you are familiar with the strength of the magic they wield?"

A few nods were seen around the table and Julian could practically _hear_ Iago grinding his teeth. Next to him, Aleksandr's lips were pressed together into a thin line.

"I understand Iago's objections. These people are the same ones who have wronged us time and again for many centuries. But when in times of war, new rules apply and for the sake of survival, we will do what it takes. There is no doubt now that Voldemort will not stop until this clan is wiped from the earth of Europe. We have not much time and we cannot afford to face the consequences should he decide to attack us head-on. This plan to aid the Light wizards… Perhaps if I worded it differently… This plan to _utilize_ the Light wizards will give us the leverage we need to win this war. They can provide us with the information we need to overcome Voldemort, and even if that is not enough, their magical abilities can be used against him as the most expedient weapon without any loss whatsoever to ourselves. To put it bluntly, think of it as us vampires using the wizards to eradicate one of their own."

The end of Pearys's speech was met with varying degrees of thought. Even Iago was seemingly mulling it over with an expression of grudging acceptance on his face. Not long after that, the meeting was adjourned once it was agreed that the final decision was to be made during the meeting the day after next. Iago and Aleksandr immediately left the room in a flurry of clothes while the rest of the council members stood to greet Julian and thank him for attendance. They were old faces to him, having lived under his advice for decades. After exchanging some words, he excused himself and left the meeting room only to find Pearys outside, waiting for him. The older vampire smiled widely at him then gestured for him to walk while they conversed.

"I know better than to ask of your health. A vampire as old as yourself is not nearly as foolish as some who would neglect the well-being of their body. So that only leaves the question of what you have been up to lately. Any conspiracies I need to know of?" teased Julian.

His companion laughed heartily. "It's good to see you again, Julian. Glad to know that you haven't lost your edge even after being a hermit for so long. No, no conspiracies to pass my time away. This war has taken too much of it already." At this, Pearys sobered. "I thank you for coming, Julian. We need you here, and not only for your counsel. Our clan cannot suffer any more losses. I'm sure you understand."

Julian understood. He had known that this order would come someday ever since the start of the war with Voldemort. Being the second oldest vampire living, the oldest being Pearys, he was too important to the clan to be killed. Voldemort had very little knowledge of the vampire ranks but still, it was only a matter of time before he sent his Death Eaters after Julian. Not that he could not hold his own against wizards but as Pearys had said, the clan cannot risk enduring any more losses. Theirs was already a small army. The loss of a leader would be last thing they needed.

Julian sighed as he recalled what had started it all. A few years ago, the self-proclaimed Dark Lord Voldemort had begun gathering followers under his campaign of pureblood superiority. The campaign was in reality a farce to recruit little servants to do his bidding in ridding Europe of muggles and muggle-born witches and wizards. Many magic users, under the illusion of power, flocked to him like flies to rotten fish. He later christened them Death Eaters, those who would answer to his every beck and call like the good little minions they were. Granting them the use of what wizards called Dark Magic, he regularly sent them on terror inducing sprees in the wizarding and muggle worlds. He killed, destroyed and caused immense chaos without refrain. But that was not enough for him. After some time, in which the general wizarding population has been reduced to trembling cowards who fear to even utter his name, Voldemort decided that he would go one step further in his 'campaign'. Why become a lord in the shadows when he could become a lord for real? His objective changed from exterminating muggles and muggle-borns to establishing himself as supreme ruler of Europe, wizarding or otherwise. But to do this, he would need an even larger and stronger militia under his command. That was when he started to approach the magical creatures. Werewolves, centaurs, merpeople, giants, veelas… Of course, vampires were not exempted.

Unfortunately for Voldemort, he was not as irresistible as he thought himself to be. The vampire council had a mere single vote which was unanimously agreed without hesitation. When the word got to Voldemort that none of the vampires will 'assist' him in his oh-so-righteous efforts, the wizard had immediately turned to threats. After a second and third time of the same response, he finally came true to his word and sent his followers to hunt down the vampires. Initially, it was a laughable move on his part as everyone knew that wizards were no match for grown vampires. But Voldemort proved that he was not a Dark Lord simply for his horribly disfigured features. With every attempt, he began to improvise. He began to discover methods to kill the undead. And what was originally entertaining encounters for the vampires slowly became deadly bloodbaths. Indeed, the demented wizard had formulated the sickest ways to neutralize his night walking non-supporters. However, seeing the corpses of their dead clansmen only served to fuel the vampires' resolve that they had made the right decision. They could never and would never work with someone who dug out the hearts and decapitated their opponents' heads. But then, they were presented with another problem. Lately, bodies have started coming in in twos and threes, meaning Voldemort had found yet another way to strike at them. They needed to fight back. That was why Julian was not surprised when the order came for him to relocate to headquarters. None of them were infallible or without weakness and the toll was already too high. Something had to be done.

"The scouts have detected recent unrest amongst the younger generation. They are having second thoughts about joining Voldemort." Here, Pearys grimaced. "They seem to think that if staying neutral means being beheaded, they prefer being a powerful minion."

"Is something being done about this?" asked Julian sharply. They really did not need a juvenile rebellion in the clan right now. Any sort of fraction must not exist.

"I have sent all those available to influence them otherwise. But this subject has been raised once, it will not go away easily. Especially if we do not show progress in this war."

By then, they had reached Julian's temporary room. It wasn't anything fancy or unique but had the distinct feel of antique England to it. Would one expect less from immortal beings? Taking their seats in the red armchairs in front of the fireplace, they continued their conversation now that it was less easy to be overheard by others.

"I understand their position. After all, it is the younger generation that Voldemort mostly targets as they are, sadly, easier to defeat and or turn." said Pearys.

"How dire is the situation?" asked Julian.

"They have begun to question why the council did not accept the initial offer. They argue that, as Dark Creatures, is it not right for us to side with Voldemort."

Pearys watched as Julian's face grew slightly sour. He would be right to think that his younger friend was mentally berating the foolishness of the younger vampires.

"Still so naïve, them. Do they not see that what Voldemort is doing is simply and directly against our interests? We are _vampires_. We feed on humans, or more specifically muggles, the ones that the psychotic wizard is so desperately trying to obliterate. In other words, he is killing our means of survival. Siding with him is the same as committing a slow suicide. Even if we do decide to side with him and with some slip of fate, he wins this war with the Light wizards, what then? What will become of us with no food and a reputation for being blood-sucking monsters? Shall we all migrate to a different continent in search for provisions? Will he let us? Let us not forget that he would no longer have a need for us by then. What makes them think that he would not do us in like how he did with all his other enemies? We would be weak without blood and he would have known all about our abilities. It would be too simple to kill us all and eliminate the threat to himself should we even have half a thought about an uprising."

Julian finished somewhat irately and turned his face to the side to recompose himself. Pearys sympathetically allowed him a moment. He knew that Julian had a minor issue with wars. Having lived as long as him, if not longer, Pearys was aware of how taxing it could be to be a witness to everything. It was one of the reasons why Julian had chosen to live in solitude. He remembered a time when the blond vampire was just teeming with life and loved to travel to the ends of the globe "Just to see what's there!". And it wasn't so long ago that Julian… Pearys quickly diverted his thoughts. Seeing the already melancholy expression on Julian's face, he knew that now was not the time to tell him. Not yet.

"Besides, we're only 'Dark Creatures' because the wizards decided so, in all their infinite wisdom on all things existing. Voldemort can't call us on something his own kind determined without our opinion. What's more, we never liked them anyway. Wizards, that is."

Julian, recognizing the act of distraction, smiled at Pearys in thanks. Following his lead, he began to talk of a different subject.

"This plan of yours, this alliance, just how exactly are you going to go about it? I am certain the wizards will not accept it without some level of suspicion, if they decide to accept it at all."

"Ah, that is the problem with statistics. Always so detached from the overall picture. You see, while the data sound as though the wizards still have some hope left, the bitter truth is, they are desperate. Voldemort has his spies everywhere and any operation devised inside the wizarding ministry will, without a doubt, be foiled before its time. Only a small organization called the Order of the Phoenix led by one Albus Dumbledore has made any significant difference in the war. The wizards are so anxious for any sort of resolution that they could not refuse our aid should we offer it. I dare say that they are in worst shape than we."

"Is that so…" Then, Julian caught the slight glint in Pearys's eyes. "There is more to this than a simple alliance in an attempt to vanquish Voldemort, isn't there?" he asked suspiciously.

"Oh, no. Just some requests that the wizards might want to consider in return for our cooperation. Some tiny changes to some laws and restrictions. After all, we're putting ourselves on the battle field for them. There should be rewards for such courageous and righteous behavior. Especially when we could have simply left them to their own problems."

"But I thought Voldemort was both our problems… Wait. Do you mean to say that they do not know? That these proud, arrogant magic users have no idea that Voldemort is out for vampire blood? That we share a common enemy?" Julian asked Pearys rather incredulously. Pearys simply smiled at him with a sly gleam in his eyes.

The sheer absurdity of it all caused Julian to break out in chuckles. To think that it would be so easy. The wizards would most likely consider their alliance a godsend. Any sort of reservations Julian had concerning the wizards' reactions were instantly erased. If this treaty worked, then the deaths of all the vampires slain by Voldemort's Death Eaters would at least be compensated by a better future for the clan. It wasn't much, but Julian doubted that it would be enough even if they killed Voldemort. They will take what they can get.

Pearys watched Julian chuckle at the wizards' ignorance but couldn't quite join in. His mind had once again strayed to the thoughts of what must be said that night. What Julian must hear. What he had a right to know. Watching his relaxed face now, Pearys couldn't quite bear to say it. To him, Julian was as good as the son or nephew he never had. He was his oldest companion and confidant. And Pearys would never ever like for him to feel unhappy. But it must be told.

"Julian, I trust Col told you about a certain dire message?" he asked, already beginning to regret doing so.

"Yes. He said that you wanted to deliver it in person. What could possibly be so important?"

"And you've heard about the most recent deaths?" Julian nodded, listening intently. Pearys hesitated, not knowing how to break the news to Julian without breaking something else too.

"The bodies were found in Germany, Julian."

Julian continued to look at him intently for a moment. Then, realization dawned and his eyes widened fractionally. Out of a corner of his eyes, Pearys saw pale fingers tighten their grip on the scarlet armrest of the armchair Julian was sitting in. They stayed like that, motionless for several moments before Julian slowly began to lean back into the armchair and closed his eyes, an unreadable expression on his face.

"I am sorry, Julian." said Pearys softly.

"Say it."

Pearys remained silent. Julian's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Say it, Pearys. I want no delusions, no misunderstandings. Just… say it."

The older vampire hesitated for only a moment.

"Vincent Valentine is dead."

Julian showed no outward reaction to this, but Pearys was more than certain that that was not the case inside.

"I am sorry, Pearys… Could you give me a moment to myself? I—"

"It's alright." whispered Pearys understandingly. "I have to retire for the day anyway. If you need anything, you know where to find me."

Julian nodded absently, eyes still pressed close. Pearys gave him one last concerned look before retreating quietly from the room.

— _Hope for the Dead —_

A blur of darkness dashed across the grassy hills and open meadows. There was no moon that night, which only served to better hide the presence of the 'darkness' that was moving so rapidly through the silent landscape.

'Of all places, why did he choose Fishguard to meet? It is too out of the way. Not to mention, it takes far too long to travel to. Information is of no use if it is not exploited at the right time, which is more often than not, immediately.'

Indeed, that was the reason why Haze was rushing so quickly back to headquarters. Normally, he wouldn't move at such a high speed with such impatience, but his wizard informant had just supplied him with intelligence that might determine the outcome of the war. Why the haste then? Because apparently, Voldemort was getting the same information from his own spies at that moment, if he didn't already know of it before then. And Haze refused to be the scout who brought back useless information.

However, as he run-leaped past leaf littered plains, he couldn't help but wonder about the dependability of what he'd just learned. He knew it wasn't his place to wonder about his scout orders and the significance of the intelligence he'd received, but really, a prophecy? The only reason he'd actually taken it seriously was because his informant had proven himself reliable in the past and the repercussions should it be true had persuaded him. So, here he was, running as though the sun was on his back, in the dead of the night, in the middle of nowhere, to relay perhaps the most ridiculous piece of intellect he had ever heard.

Haze was just some ways away from Carmarthen when he felt it. In only a split second, his entire being froze like a deer in the headlights. But it was not headlights which had caused this reaction from him. It was a magical backlash. A _very strong_ magical backlash. It washed over him, making his hair stand on end, giving him goose bumps and making his senses go wild with paranoia. He was immediately alert and cautious. One didn't feel something like that in the middle of nowhere. He could tell that it was not a natural occurrence, but there was also no one near him who could have caused such a disturbance. A simple check confirmed that it was wizard magic.

Now, Haze was in a dilemma. He stayed perched on a secluded hill, considering his options. On one hand, he could ignore the backlash and continue on his way back to headquarters, relaying important information but never knowing if he had just overlooked a major event that might influence the war. On the other hand, he could make a detour, investigate the incident and perhaps gather more information that might be useful to his clan. If it proved to be a mere accident or nothing at all, it would still do to notify the council about the unexplainable magical explosion. One option used more time but the other was an ignorant one. What to do… Then, there was another thing which concerned him. Any witch or wizard who could cause such a powerful explosion would not be anyone to disagree with and Haze had no idea whether he or she was a 'friendly' or the other way round. A fleeting thought entered his mind and he inwardly laughed hollowly at the thought that it might very well be Voldemort himself who caused that backlash. If so, Haze had little to no chance of getting away unharmed.

Hesitating another moment, he turned then began to head towards the direction from where he had felt the magical outburst, all the while vampiric eyes at their full potential looking for any sign of anything out of the ordinary. Namely, black robes and white masks. And with that, he would unknowingly come to a scene where he would make one simple decision, and that simple decision alone would change the lives of many.

**Author's Notes:** I finally typed this. Really, this fic has been in my head for months! Well, I've hit a slight block for Hogwarts Mareschal and I'll probably be working on this till I get over it. Hope readers from HM aren't too mad or disappointed. On the other hand, I hope this story will appeal to a larger group of people as Harry will be the main, or co-main, character in here. The writing style is slightly different from HM but I'm experimenting. Tell me what you think. I know everything pretty much doesn't make sense right now but like in HM, suspense is one of the key elements in this story too. And there are warnings posted for relationships so I will not entertain flames concerning those. Otherwise, I'd like to know what you all think. Reviews, opinions, constructive criticism are very welcomed.

Vincent Valentine – Yes,_ that_ Vincent Valentine, from Final Fantasy VII. I just love borrowing characters. Don't own him.

Estar loco! – It's crazy! (Spanish)

Until next time, good night everyone.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Beings We Are **

By: Lore or mess.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, I just write fanfictions. Anything else that seems familiar is also coincidental.

Warnings: This story contains homosexual relationships. Lot's of 'em. If you are offended by this or in any way feel uncomfortable, you have the choice to continue reading or forego reading this story. The choice is yours. However, I will not entertain any sort of derogatory comments made concerning this issue. This warning has been posted.

**Chapter 2 **

**Hope for the Dead: Part II**

Cool fingers gently caressed his stomach, sending light shivers down his spine. Wetness – a tongue – trailed down his chest, to his navel, where it circled a few times before dipping inside, teasing him. A soft gasp escaped from his lips. Skin slid against skin as the person above him moved to bring his face closer to his. He felt warm breath wash over his neck before soft lips pressed against the sensitive skin. Lick, suck, nibble. He moaned at the ministrations. The lips moved to the side of his neck, tongue darting out to map the lining of his arteries. His pulse was throbbing under that soft flesh. Teeth nibbled at him, before something sharp pressed down and broke the skin. He felt no pain as the other person began to slowly lap up what he knew to be his blood, seeping out from the small cut on his neck. A moment later, he felt a soft, warm sensation and he knew that the wound was no more. Lips kissed the now flawless, perfectly healed skin. Hands came to rest on his hips, massaging them sensually. Legs shifted and rubbed against his. He moaned again. That warm breath went to his ear, tongue assaulting it teasingly. His arms came up to embrace the person, one hand grabbing a fistful of soft, long hair. The tongue ceased moving then went away as a deep voice whispered next to his ear.

"Do you love me?"

He forced his eyes to open, but all he saw was long, dark hair.

"Vincent……"

Julian jerked awake with a start, gasping and sitting up quickly. It took him a moment to realize just what had happened. When he did, he looked down to see his mildly shaking hands. Bringing his knees close to his chest, his wrapped his right arm around them and brought his left hand up to gently knead his eyes.

"Vincent."

A well of emotions filled his chest, but he could not discern one from the next. Sorrow tugged at his heart and nostalgic affection lingered on his mind. He gripped the comforter under his hand as the truth came to overwhelm him again.

Vincent was dead.

Memories threatened to engulf him as images flashed across his eyes. That long black hair that he loved to slid his fingers through, those red-brown eyes that always seemed to pierce into his soul, that face that put the purest alabaster to shame, that voice that resonates deep in his very being……

He felt something on his face and wiped it away to see moisture coating his fingers. A tear had involuntarily slid down his face. He felt the wetness on his skin and closed his eyes tiredly. Someone had once told him that it better to cry and let it all out when he wanted to instead of keeping it in because it will only hurt more if he did it later. But he was so confused, too confused to cry. A part of him felt like giving up, to break down and weep, while another part of him continually questioned whether or not that would only make it worse. He wasn't even sure of how upset he should be at the moment. After all, it's already been so many years. Forty-three, in fact. One would think that he was over his relationship with Vincent. But then again, to a vampire who was well over seven centuries old, forty-three years was nothing. In a way, it felt like only yesterday Vincent had held him in his arms, whispering soft nonsense into his ear. But at the same time, Julian felt like an eternity had passed between them, as though he had felt far too empty for far too long.

Heaving a sigh, he rested his forehead on his knees, thinking back on how it all started. And ended. He first met Vincent some sixty odd years ago. Then, he was but a fledgling vampire, not even able to claim five decades behind him. Vincent had been injured by hunters who thought him to be animal prey while traveling through the forest. He'd escaped to an abandoned church at the edges of the wood, where Julian had found him. As young as he was, Vincent's vampiric regeneration abilities had been weak and he could barely sustain himself enough to walk. It was Julian who had used hypnotism to lead villagers to the church so that Vincent may feed on them and regain strength. At that time, the blonde vampire had not done such a thing out of the goodness of his heart. No, he simply found it curious that a new-turned like Vincent would be by himself. Every new vampire would usually be apprenticed under their sire or dam for at least a century before they were released to roam as they wish. For Vincent to be without a mentor was highly worrisome. Not only because he may be a threat to himself, but also a threat to the clan. A lone vampire straying the globe without any knowledge of the vampire laws was a danger to all of them. And thus, Julian had stayed with him till he healed, then offered to become a companion who would assist him in the vampire ways for a short time.

Things were good at the beginning. Vincent was a sharp person and could understand teachings at a rapid pace. He would often debate with Julian many topics concerning the human world, an activity they both enjoyed immensely. It was not until ten years later that they both realized their feelings for each other had surpassed the border of friendship. From then on, Julian's life simply turned into a dream of days where he spent every one of them feeling loved. It was a bliss he had never known, a fantasy most would find only in romance novels. Their relationship lasted strong for more than twenty years. But alas,… eventually, inevitably, everything must come to an end.

The break-up had been long and painful for Julian. Not because either of them suddenly had a change of heart or some sort, but because it had been a slow process of love dying in front of his eyes. After twenty heavenly years, Vincent had expressed an urge to travel and see the world. But not with him. He had met a group of younger vampires like himself who had just only finished their apprenticeship with their mentors. They were planning to see the sights without any kind of prejudice, and therefore only allowing young vampires to partake in their journey. It had been a great opportunity for Vincent who, up until then, had spent most of his time with only Julian. Of course, the blonde had given his genuine support and Vincent had left with the group. During the first few years abroad, he had written much to Julian, describing sights that the older vampire had already seen in his younger years. Telephones were not very common then and telegrams simply did not reach Julian's cottage. But Vincent wrote, and Julian could never write back as he would never know where his lover would be by the time he received his letter. Eventually, the strain on their relationship grew. After not more than fifteen years since Vincent left, they had decided to become platonic.

It was painful for Julian. To let a love like that die. He had not wanted to say no, to demand that Vincent return because he knew that Vincent had wanted and needed the experience. He had not wanted to be selfish for his own sake. But then, he also had not wanted to lose his love to the younger vampire, especially in that way where it felt as though the mere air was constantly choking him with each passing day that he knew Vincent was slowly drawing away from him. Perhaps it would have been better if Vincent had simply told him that he loved him no longer. Though on the other hand, Julian probably would not have believed him even if he did.

'I wonder if he would look at me in that weird way of his if I told him that I want to love him still after all this time.'

Another tear traitorously slid from his left eye, but Julian showed no other outwards reaction to his grief inside. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled it slowly, raising his head and willing the memories to finally become just what they were – memories. Vincent was dead now and there was nothing Julian could do for him anymore besides damning his murderer, and the man behind him, to hell.

'Voldemort has forgotten why he initially asked for our support. We will just have to remind him.'

Outside, the sun was setting.

— _Hope for the Dead —_

Haze held himself as still as possible on the branch of the oak he was perched on, eyes never astray from the sight before him. The air around him was charged with magic and his skin tingled at the mere touch of it. He knew without a doubt what the consequences would be if he was found, but the darkness and his cloak hid him well amidst the leaves from being detected by the people below.

Death Eaters.

There were four of them, all dressed in their trademark black robes and white masks, milling about in a scavenging fashion. They were foraging what looked to be the remains of a large house. Judging by the damage, Haze would say that a minor explosion had occurred to cause the devastation. Walls were blow apart, debris was everywhere, and scorch marks covered nearly every visible surface. There was the faintest smell of blood mingled in the dusty air, probably caused by nothing more serious than a small gash. Turning his attention back to the Death Eaters, Haze could hear muttered curses from them every now and then as they picked their way through the rubble. He noticed them growing more and more restless with each passing minute and their actions more agitated. Cautiously, he extended his senses to the surrounding areas. With several of his mask-wearing minions present, Voldemort could very well be nearby and ready to strike at defenseless passer-bys. Namely, innocent information scout vampires like himself. Sensing nothing but woodland animals for a hundred fifty metres in all directions, he instead focused on the happenings below.

One of the Death Eaters, a tall, brute of a person, gave a yell to signal over his comrades when he found another one of their own under a fallen door. The victim's mask was removed to check for injuries and Haze recognized the unconscious as Lucius Malfoy, one of Voldemort's most trusted lackeys. As he'd sensed them earlier, he was not surprised when, after that, three more Death Eaters were uncovered beneath the wreckage: Walden Macnair, Augustus Rookwood, and Antonin Dolohov. Together, they counted for eight Death Eaters, four conscious, four unconscious.

"What do we do now? Our lord is nowhere to be found." asked the smallest of the four conscious.

"Search harder! The Potters must have implemented some sort of defensive ward to collapse the house should our lord ever arrive to attack them. Find them! I refuse to believe that our lord has been defeated by Dumbledore's servants!"

The four started to search the ruins again. Above them, Haze's thoughts were going at maximum speed.

'If this is… _was_ the Potters' home, then Turncoat was right. Voldemort already knew about the prophecy. And by the looks of things, he already took steps to prevent it. What about the other candidate? The… Longbottom child. It seems that the madman was here with his lackeys when that explosion happened. But where is he now?'

Just then, one of the Death Eaters hauled something out of the collapsed masonry and excited whispers immediately began to pass between the wizards.

"_Potter_. Serves the blood traitor right. Now he knows the consequences of denying our lord."

"Where's his mudblood wife? I want the satisfaction of knowing our lord killed her along with her blood traitor husband."

"Wait, didn't they have a child? A son?"

"Half-blood spawn. Probably crushed by the house when it gave way."

Haze would readily admit that he was not a very old vampire, though he did have some three centuries worth of knowledge with him. He'd seen things that could make the sanest person act irrationally, heard things that could enrage the holiest of priests, and experienced the nastiest of things life could throw in one's way. In fact, he could say that he had done quite a number of things befitting of his title of the damned. The point was, he knew that sometimes, the worst of luck occurs at the worst of situations. Such as, at that particular moment. The last Death Eater had barely finished speaking before a child's crying filled the silent night.

'Blasted child! Be quiet!' thought Haze.

As though capable of hearing his thoughts, the Potter child gave only one rebellious response; he cried louder. Cursing inwardly, Haze watched as the Death Eaters moved steadily closer to the child's location under the wrecked remains of the house, led on by the infant's shrill, incessant crying. Apprehension gathered between Haze's shoulders as he desperately thought of a plan. It wasn't helping that his mind constantly questioned himself of why he couldn't sense the boy earlier if he had been alive under the piles of wood and brickwork. One Death Eater finally found the source of the wails, and kicked aside the crumpled plasters to reveal the babe. Concentrated senses told Haze that the child had a mild cut on his face but nothing else besides the dirt and dust covering his soiled baby pajamas. The Death Eater who had first reached the child, picked him up with a sneer on his face as he regarded the tot in his hand like one would something foul.

"It lived. Shows how much like cockroaches these half-blood brood are."

"Hey, Nott! I found the mudblood."

The Death Eater who had spoken lifted a particularly large piece of fallen panel very near where the Potter child had been found. It revealed a limp body with a mass of red hair, but Haze could see nothing more than that as the Death Eaters did not lift the dead witch's body to sneer at as they did her husband's. Probably afraid of being infected by her 'mudbloodness'. The sheer foolishness of such a notion brought a slight flash of annoyed amusement in the back of Haze's mind. But the situation did not grow less dire from there, in truth, it was wholly the opposite as the Death Eaters returned their attention to the infant they held. Said infant had ceased his crying after being lifted from the rubble but was still gurgling soft sounds at the odd men who were eyeing him with cold scrutiny.

"What do we do now, Mulciber?"

"We kill it. No use letting it live. We still have to find our lord. He has to be around here somewhere." Came the icy answer.

The Death Eater Nott, as Haze now knew him to be, set the child on the ground again before straightening up and readying his wand. The others had already wandered off, presumably to search for their master, all thinking that the job would be done with swiftly. Knowing that he had only the barest of seconds to interfere before Nott snuffed the life from the remaining Potter, Haze threw himself into quick, eye-watering action. He knew that he had to save the boy, even if it meant putting himself in such an unsavoury position amongst Death Eaters. Oh, he didn't sympathize with the child, no. And he wasn't feeling any sort of out-of-place remorse to fuel his actions in saving the life of another mere mortal. Simply, he knew that he had to do this, just as he _knew_ that the boy was going to play a key role in his existence. In his clan's existence. All vampires were 'born' with a distinct kind of instinct telling them what to do in the most puzzling of situations. After nearly three centuries, Haze had learnt to listen to his.

And so, as Nott trained his wand on the defenseless infant lying upon the brick-littered ground, Haze flung himself down and directly in between all the Death Eaters. His feet made an intentional soft 'thump!' as he landed, drawing their attentions and effectively preventing one child's early death. Heads whirled towards him and wands rose to attack but they were already too late, too slow for him. Hands spread out, Haze sent his illusions and hypnotisms, using his abilities to the fullest. There was a definite strain behind his eyes as he powered his attack on the Death Eaters who had all but frozen at the start of his assault. Barely three seconds had passed since then and already his breaths were coming in short pants as he weaved his tale in the minds of his victims. By the end of it, Haze's knees felt slightly weak as he toddled over to the suspiciously quiet Potter child. Reaching him, Haze saw that the silence was actually due to having the boy fall asleep during his furious mind battle with the Death Eaters. Something that felt very much like incredulity sparked in his chest as he stared at the slumbering babe before he moved to pick him up and cradle him against his chest. The child made no sounds as he prepared to leave the odd scene. Indeed, odd it was and if Haze hadn't felt as tired and guarded as he felt then, he might have found it funny even. The four conscious Death Eaters were frozen like statues in their positions. They stared at each other with their blank eyes as they stood unmoving amongst pieces of the destroyed house. Aware that he had only tens of seconds to be gone before they woke from his induced trance, Haze forced strength into his legs, and ran.

— _Hope for the Dead —_

"…… This is unspeakable, this is unbelievable, this is BEYOND INSANE! Have you lost your mind in the last century?! We cannot keep this— this child! It is against our laws! Not to mention what it would do to our relations within and outside our clan…!"

"For once in your undead life, Iago, _listen before you speak_!"

Julian watched with amused eyes as Iago and Adelbert screamed and glared at each other. Again. From what he could gather from the rest of the council members, this happened at nearly every meeting. It was as if one cannot survive the assembly without having some sort of shouting match with the other. Wondering if they were some 'unresolved tension' between them, he kindly and calmly pointed out that they resembled a married couple with the way they were arguing. Silence fell between them so fast, Julian couldn't help the slight snicker that left his lips. Which earned him a very venomous glare courtesy of one Spanish vampire.

'Well, at least they're silent now.' mused Julian.

"Gentlemen, ladies, this development came as something entirely unexpected, but we will use whatever advantage given to us. According to the information received by our scout, this child may be the key to defeating Voldemort—" Here, everyone ignored the disdainful snort from Iago. "—and this is further supported by evidence of him trying to assassinate the child's family. Recounts of the encounter show us that…"

Twenty minutes later, Pearys had explained everything that happened between their scout, Haze, and the Death Eaters at Godric's Hollow. The young vampire informant had arrived at headquarters earlier with the child and was currently recuperating from his battle and long journey. To the relief and overall approval of the council members, Haze had done very well in erasing every indication of his presence at the scene. With several well-placed illusions and hypnotic suggestions, he had influenced the Death Eaters to magically burn everything, including the bodies of the Potters. Memories of him and of the Potter child were also expunged from their minds, leaving no trace of the vampires ever having dealt a hand in the events that night. To the entire world outside the vampire council, and perhaps a select few vampires, the Potters were dead and nothing more than ashes.

"There is no possible way that we can keep this child! We do not even know if the blasted prophecy is true. And even if it is, what of the time being? The tot is barely old enough to walk, much less banish dark wizards! Shall we play the nannies whilst he age? Think of the utter idiocy of hiding a wizard child away from his own kind! I say we put him back where he belongs!"

"And what of our clan? Do we throw away the one possible answer to our salvation?"

"The alliance Pearys suggested, we can use that. In fact, the child can be used as a token to initiate—"

"What makes you think they won't suspect us of kidnapping the child for just that? The way I see it, presenting the boy would only make matters worse. As far as the wizards are concerned, we vampires are in league with Voldemort."

"Regardless, we cannot—"

"_**I**_ think……"

The abrupt interruption immediately silenced the ongoing argument between Iago and Adelbert. It was not so much as the fact that they were interrupted, it was the matter of who had interrupted them. Heads turned to observe the owner of the voice.

Looking not a day older than twelve, Louis Yang and his twin sister, Marie, were in fact, sixteen years old when they were turned. Despite their child-like appearance and playful air, the two were fast approaching their fifth century as vampires. What was so special about them that they merited instant attention was that they seldom spoke during meetings. Nevertheless, each time they did, it was usually something worth considering. Seeing that he had the council's interest, Louis grinned and continued with his piece.

"I think that we should just wait for a few days. Whatever the reason, we should consider the circumstances in the wizarding world before taking any action. If the prophecy has any truth in it, giving the child away would be pure foolishness on our part. I am of the opinion that we should gather more information to determine our next step. No sense rushing when there is no need for it. After all, fortune is when chance meets research."

"I second that."

Julian saw the bright smile Louis threw in his direction at that. The younger male and his sister had always somewhat adored him since the day they met. With a round of quiet conceding, not so quiet on Iago's part, the council settled for another meeting after three days. Standing up to leave and catching the look on Iago's face, Julian could just see the impatience under his skin to chuck the Potter babe from vampire territory as soon as possible. Unfortunately for the Spaniard, Lady Fortuna was not as kind to him as he had hoped.

Three days was enough time for the council's various scouts to glean sufficient information from the wizarding world. It seemed that, after the assassination attack on the Potters, Voldemort had disappeared. When asked to elaborate, one unidentified wizard had explained that the supposed joined powers and 'love' of the Potter family had 'defeated' Voldemort. However_ ridiculous_ that sounded, the entire population of wizards believed it, even the Death Eaters. Turncoat, Haze's informant, had confirmed that many of them had begun to get very fidgety. With their link to the dark wizard, Death Eaters had always been able to feel the presence of their master, but somehow, after that night, they couldn't anymore. It was enough to convince some of the more cowardly minions to give themselves up to the wizarding ministry as being cursed and forced to do the mad wizard's bidding. Others either fled or kept to their belief that their lord was still alive somewhere. Regardless, the wizarding world was rejoicing. Their public enemy number one was dead and all was right with the world. The only damper on their celebrations was the sad fact that the entire Potter family and the Longbottom couple had been sacrificed along the way. It appeared that, on the same night as the attack on the Potters, Bellatrix, Rodolphus, Rabastan Lestrange and one other Death Eater had invaded the home of the Longbottoms with the same intent as their lord. However, Aurors had managed to apprehend them before they could kill any one member of the small family. Unfortunately, Frank and Alice Longbottom had already been tortured to insanity by then, leaving their only son, Neville, to be cared for by his grandmother. It was a sad fate that had befallen the two well-known families, but even the knowledge of that did little to discourage the joy and relief flooding the streets of wizarding Europe.

The vampire council sat silent in contemplation, each seemingly examining the wood grain of the large circular oak meeting table. Many things were to be discussed that day, but the most recent changes in the war had been too abrupt and a tad too shocking to be addressed so directly……

"So… Voldemort is dead." Iago deadpanned.

'… Or perhaps not.' thought Julian wryly. Glancing about, he saw that Iago had earned a raised eyebrow from Aleksandr, who sat beside him, for his utterly blunt briskness.

"Well, Haze did mention that there had been a very strong magical backlash that night. Perhaps something else had happened that he was not in time to see." said Pearys.

"The facts of the matter are, Voldemort is dead, most of the Death Eaters have broken up and fled, the wizarding world is in elation, and we have one 'supposedly dead' baby in our hands." muttered Adelbert.

The council stirred slightly at the accurate summary until Iago loudly proclaimed to have the Potter child removed from their care.

"There is no longer any need for the boy. Our problem with Voldemort is solved with his death and we can move on with our lives as soon as we are rid of the child."

"Iago, it has been pointed out before that returning the child will not portray a pleasant picture for us. Especially now when Voldemort is gone—"

"So simply leave him in an alley where someone would find him. Nothing is compelling us to deliver him to the wizards hand to hand like some precious jewel."

"I will not," argued Pearys. "leave this child to the fate of strangers. Under _our orders_, for _our sake_ was he taken away from his parents and proper place. Granted, we may have saved his life that night, but that makes it all the more reason why we are now responsible for him. The least we can do is make sure that he is in good hands when he is put back where he belongs."

"What does it matter as long as he is with his own kind?"

"You will damn an innocent child to an unknown fate? Even after knowing that the child had indirectly saved your clan from annihilation?" A touch of steel had entered Pearys's tone.

"I am merely saying that—"

"It has not ended."

It seemed that it was simply Iago's luck to be constantly interrupted by others when speaking. However, this particular interruption, unlike the one by Louis, was one which _could not_ be ignored. Every single vampire in the room instantaneously focused their attention on one of the two females at the table. Emeral Aditya, as usual, had a glazed look on her face, her customary faraway eyes regarding her fellow kinsmen in an almost lazy manner. One would wonder how she had been offered a place in the council what with her sleepy attitude and plain disregard for most things. The answer was plain: she was a seer. A vampire seer. An extremely good one.

"It has not ended, purely stalled. The one who is dead, is not. Not undead, yet he cannot die. The serpent sleeps in the winter and resurfaces when the time is right. The prophecy is true but it has yet come to pass. What becomes the child, becomes us… I had a vision."

Silence prevailed. Julian could almost see the gears turning in the heads of those around him, each processing the information they had just heard. The forewarning had been simple: Voldemort was not dead; they cannot kill him; he will return when he wills it; the war has only been delayed; the prophecy was true concerning the Potter child; and if he dies, the vampires die. Simple.

"Marvelous." whispered Aleksandr sardonically.

Several moments later…

"So you see, Iago," said Pearys slowly. "We cannot 'be rid' of the child."

Julian watched warily as Iago's face gradually turned a shade of scarlet.

"So do you propose that we_ raise_ the brat!? We, vampires, raise a wizard child? I ought to laugh! If only I could stomach the fact!"

"You heard Emeral, Iago. We need him. Better that we raise him in our beliefs than let him grow alongside wizard hatred for the undead."

"I refuse to have anything to do with the brat! Keep him if you must Pearys, but let not I see his wizardly existence if you do not wish the boy to be hurt."

"Regrettably, I have to agree with Pereira that I do not wish to foster the child under my care." said Aleksandr.

Julian sighed softly as the mild argument went on for whom to take care of the Potter child. Looking down and to his left, his eyes fell on the infant sleeping soundly in the makeshift cradle next to him. The boy, Harry, had been brought into the room when it was decided that his fate would be determined in the meeting that day. The past three days, he had been cared for by various female vampires working in the headquarters and from what he'd heard, the boy had been quite the Mr.Popular. No matter that he was a wizard child, a baby was a baby, and females, Julian had found, simply could not resist them. This was even more so for female vampires as they, being the undead, could not have children. Julian's eyes traveled around the child's cherub-ish face till they settled on a lightning bolt shaped scar on the tot's forehead. A souvenir from Voldemort it seemed. And if the prophecy was true than it won't be the last one he received. At that, Julian could not help but feel the faintest trace of sympathy for the child. He knew that what they were doing now was essentially using the boy for their own selfish means. For that, as Pearys had said, the least they could do was find him a good guardian. But Julian wasn't even sure if any one vampire would be willing to do that. Temporary care was one thing, but to foster an infant ward till he becomes of age? The discrimination between vampires and wizards was still strong after several decades of tentative peace, and Julian wasn't sure if the prospect of raising a child as one's own could overcome that. If it came to it that the vampires were unwilling, they will have to find someone else who was. Someone with connections to vampires, who was willing to keep secrets, and to educate the child.

"—cannot raise him here, at headquarters, because of the risk of exposure—"

"—and it should be kept to knowledge among council members only. Therefore, the only logical decision is to have him cared for by—"

"—WILL NOT TOLERATE A WIZARD CHILD IN OUR MIDST!"

**THUDD!!! **

"Waaa!!"

Hands immediately flew to ears and low groans were heard as the occupants of the room tried to block out the maddening sounds rapidly filling their heads. _Someone_, Julian highly suspected it to be Iago, had slammed their hands onto the oak surface and caused a loud thud, only to be followed directly after by high-pitched, deafening, infant crying. That's what you get for forgetting that there was a baby in the room.

"Shut it! Shut it!" shouted Iago, hands pressed into the sides of his head and eyes screwed tightly shut in pain.

"Whose bright idea was it to bring the baby in here?!" roared Aleksandr, who was in a similar position to Iago. The only difference was that he was glaring at everyone else instead.

Unfortunately for the undead beings with sensitive hearing, all the shouting had only encouraged the Potter babe to cry louder. Much, much louder.

"Aargh!!"

Taking pity on his fellow vampires, and also on his own throbbing eardrums, Julian deftly rose from his seat and went over to the cradle beside him. Picking up the child, he began to rock it back and forth, making soft and comforting shushing sounds. When that failed to work, he began to hum. The Song of Azmaria was a healing song he had learned some several centuries ago from a blind and crippled sister. He would have never thought that he would use it on a baby some day. Several moments later, the child had ceased his crying and was sniffing quietly in his arms. Julian could feel the relief in his shoulders — and eardrums — as he let out a sigh. Looking up to check on the state of the others, he instinctively froze.

Every one of the council was staring at him intently.

And Julian had a sinking feeling that he had just sealed his own fate.

The silence went on like that, with no one willing to say the inevitable, until sudden childish giggles broke out.

"We have a winner! Kung hei nei ah, Julian!" exclaimed Marie.

— _Hope for the Dead —_

**Knock, knock.**

"Come in."

Col pushed open the door to Julian's temporary room and stood mildly stunned in the doorway, surveying the area interestedly. Various new baby articles were scattered on the table before the fireplace, bags and boxes in bright wrappers were stacked neatly at one corner, and Julian was sitting in front of a very happy baby playing with a large toy dog. Now, the first and second parts were interesting merely because of what Col knew the objects to be, but the last part _would_ have been normal if not for one tiny detail: The toy dog had three heads. And a pair of wings. A Cerberus. Realization dawned on Col and he wisely decided to not comment on it. The wound would still be too fresh to be prodded.

"I have brought the things you required from the cottage. They will be sorted and sent accordingly to your new residence."

"Thank you, Col."

Not knowing what else to say to the older vampire, Col kept his silence as he watched Julian tug playfully at the toy dog. He had been Julian's personal messenger for about five years now and had formed a sort of friendship with him. However, with the newest developments, Julian had been chosen to look after the Potter child and thus, would be moving away from his solitary cottage in the country. In fact, he would be moving away from the entire continent! Col highly doubted that he would stay as Julian's messenger after that. Which made things slightly complicated for Col but he refused to think of any of it, especially now when a certain vampire's corpse had been found in Germany.

Focusing his attention on the scene in front of him, he watched with light bewilderment as Julian ran his fingers through the Potter child's short black hair. Seeing him being so caring, so _motherly_, was rather strange for Col. He'd always known Julian to be cool, suave, and generally detached from most people. There were exceptions of course, like head councilman Pearys Skayle and vice-head councilman Adelbert von Weiss. And it was not to say that Julian was not kind, but one could only be so amicable after living for seven centuries. Pulling his thoughts away from delving too deep, Col asked a question that had been plaguing his mind since the time he had heard about Julian relocating.

"If it is not too sudden to ask… why New York?"

Julian answered him without looking up. "There is too much discrimination in Europe, Col. I want to raise him without having him think about the circumstances of being with me. That will not happen here in England. And then there is the chance of discovery. You and I both know that should he be found, consequences will be most dire. Besides," a small smile appeared on Julian's face. "I have not been to New York since the nineteenth century. It will be nice to revisit old places."

Just then, the raven-haired tot started to mouth on one of the wings of the Cerberus, toothlessly slobbering saliva over the red and black fur. Julian made a soft tutting sound and gently pried the poor toy away from the child, lightly tapping the boy's nose in punishment. Col wasn't sure where Julian got all his loving, motherly gestures from, but he was pretty sure his heart had skipped a beat at that moment.

"Yes, I am sure Harry would enjoy New York too." said Col, willing the earlier image to disappear.

"Not Harry."

Col blinked. "Pardon?"

This time, Julian raised his head to answer him. "Not Harry. If I am going to raise a child, I will have to say his name countless times a day. Therefore, it must be a name I am _willing_ to say countless times a day. And 'Harry' is such a _ghastly_ name. Common too. I will not let my charge be called something as mundane a designation as that."

The sheer coolness in which Julian had said that had actually managed to awe Col. "So what will you call him?"

Julian turned back to the child in front of him, that small smile again on his lips. Col dimly noted that little Not-Harry was now pulling two of the Cerberus's heads in opposite directions.

"Leifr."

"Leifr?"

Julian nodded.

Col thought a moment. "Well… it is not any name I have heard of. Definitely not a common name."

Julian shook his head, hand once more running through his charge's ebony hair.

"It means 'heir' in Old Norse."

**Author's Notes:** Yes! YES! I did it! Can you believe that four fifths of this chapter was written on the same day? And then my computer re-started… Thank god for document recovery programmes. With this chapter ends the _Hope for the Dead_ arc. The next chapter will be soon, I promise. I have to, see, 'coz people have started protesting my lack of work. Side note: I know I said that this will be a Harry fic or a co-Harry fic, but some base was needed so these first two chapters are just that, the introduction. That said, I really want your opinions and thoughts on the story so please leave a review. If you have questions, ask and I will try to answer or the answer will be in the next chapters.

Very big THANK YOU to** kenishii **for being the first reviewer of this fic. Really glad to know you liked it.

Kung hei nei ah, Julian! – Congratulations to you, Julian! (It's Chinese, Cantonese actually.)

Until next time, good night everyone.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Beings We Are **

By: Lore or mess.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, I just write fanfictions. Anything else that seems familiar is also coincidental.

Warnings: This story contains homosexual relationships. Lot's of 'em. If you are offended by this or in any way feel uncomfortable, you have the choice to continue reading or forego reading this story. The choice is yours. However, I will not entertain any sort of derogatory comments made concerning this issue. This warning has been posted.

**Chapter 3 **

**CSI: Vampires in New York – Part I **

**Knock, knock, knock. **

"Dad!"

Col absentmindedly draped an arm over his eyes, fervently willing 'the pest' to go away and leave him in peace. Which did not happen, and he continued to ignore the sounds from the other side of the bedroom door. After a while, silence regained its reign and a relieved sigh escaped from Col's lips. The arm around his waist stirred then began to trace its way up his torso. Slowly, lightly, and teasingly gentle. Soft fingers drifted over one of his nipples, ghosting across the sensitive bud and effectively waking him from the remaining dregs of slumber. His arm was removed from his face and cool, smooth lips pressed against his. They moved in a slow dance, just barely touching yet never apart. A tongue teased for entrance and Col readily gave it. The invader took his time mapping out the inside of his mouth, finally initiating a fight with Col's tongue. It was a lazy battle, with many open mouthed kisses and hands caressing skin. Col's hands wandered down to rest around a thin waist, his legs reflexively pushing apart his partner's. Tearing his slightly swollen lips away, he latched his mouth onto the neck that was so conveniently presented to him. A low whine sent a puff of hot breath to his ear. Col's hands twitched, then moved to grasp that soft skin just below……

**KNOCK, KNOCK! **

"Daddy!"

Huffing in annoyance, Col gently and reluctantly extracted himself from that delightful body. Picking up a pajama bottom along the way and idly putting it on, he strode over to the door and yanked it open. His exasperated scowl was met with a pair of defiant bright green eyes under long black bangs. The stare-off lasted for a full five minutes, with neither willing to give an inch until…

Col sighed. "We'll be out in a minute, kid."

A triumphant glint entered those emerald orbs and the satisfied seven year-old turned to leave. Col watched him go, shaking his head fondly. Sometimes, he wondered who had more say around the house, him or that pint-sized pain in the neck. Closing the door and leaning back resignedly against it, he was immediately treated to a very nice view.

Golden hair spread about the pillows and neck, sheets barely coming up to his hips, Julian was lying on his side, blue eyes sleepily regarding him. Col instinctively felt a spike of passion when he sensed that gaze rake over his body. Silently, Julian rose from the bed and stalked predatorily over to him in all his unclothed glory. Col's eyes could not help but roam across that pale and perfect skin, imagining all the things he could do and have done to it. He was pleasantly pulled out of his thoughts when that delicious body pressed up against his and a pair of arms encircled around his neck. Dipping his head down, he caught those lovely pink lips and wasted no time in claiming them. He greedily swallowed the moan that Julian gave, mind already giving him ideas on how to create more from the exquisite creature before him, when Julian suddenly pulled away.

Blinking, Col watched as Julian sauntered over to their walk-in closet and began picking out their attires for the evening.

"It's dull, but black is the standard, isn't it?"

Moving to stand behind him, Col wrapped his arms around Julian's waist and began to assault his neck instead.

"You leave me unattended, my love." He muttered against the delicate skin. Julian moaned softly and tilted his head to allow Col more room.

"Leifr really wants to see this play. You promised him we would go together."

Stopping his ministrations, Col let his arms hang loose around Julian's middle and sighed in defeat. "Of all poets, why Shakespeare? I could never make sense of anything he wrote. I'd prefer Wilde or Poe. At least Edgar made some semblance of logic."

"Othello is not that difficult to understand. In fact, I think you'd enjoy it." replied Julian.

"Othello… You do realize that if this gets to his ears, Iago is not going to be very nice to you."

"Hasn't he always been? I don't think he's nice to anyone, even Aleksandr, so it won't make a difference. Besides, how many other people have been watching this play since the 1600s? If he's going to take offence every time, he'd have exploded from rage by now."

"Still," Col had started to nibble on Julian's right ear. "I can think of other ways to spend my time."

Pulling away and turning around, Julian pressed a tuxedo set into Col's chest.

"Get dressed, lover."

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

"Third one in a month. You were right, Mac. Some sicko's gone off the deep end."

Detective Donald Flack and Mac Taylor habitually ducked under the yellow crime scene tape surrounding the small area and walked over to where they've spotted their fellow ME examining a body.

"What have got for us, doc?"

"Same as the last two times. No visible external injuries, except the two puncture wounds on the neck. The body's been sucked dry. Minus the organs and we'll have one very fine mummy."

True to the coroner's words, the pale corpse lying on the damp dirt beneath their feet did look fairly much like a mummy. The skin was a deadly pastel grey, with dull purplish and greenish veins clearly visible, and the body was oddly sunken as though severely dehydrated. But underneath all that which proclaimed the deceased status of the victim, Mac could still see that the boy was reasonably young. Wearing a white t-shirt under a blue denim jacket and cargo pants, he couldn't have been more than seventeen.

"There seems to be nothing stolen. Victim's wallet had an I.D. identifying him to be a Gus Peterson, sixteen. A library card said he went to the New York University Steinhardt. There was a used movie ticket for the midnight show last night. The poor kid was still breathing several hours ago." reported Flack.

Mac stood up from where he had been squatting next to the victim. If there was one thing he hated more than crime, it was crime involving children. And the two prior victims hadn't been much younger or older than the one he was currently looking at. It was a distressing thought that there was someone out there just waiting for the right time to do the same to other teenagers.

It all started roughly a month ago, when the body of an eighteen year old had been found in Central Park. A couple, who had been intending to have a romantic picnic, had found the body entangled in the branches of the tree they had settled under. Not two weeks after that, another body had been found in the lake, this time by a family of four during a stroll. Now, barely a week after, a morning jogger had called the station, saying that she had seen a body half-buried under a pile of dried leaves. That made three cases in hardly a month, and the similarities in each were enough to convince Mac that they were done by the same person; All of the victims had been boys, teen-aged, fair, and attractive; Each would sustain no outer injuries, besides the shallow, dual stab wounds on their necks, and cause of death was always excessive blood loss. Reports had ruled out robbery as none of the victims' money or belongings were taken and sexual kits have proved that they were not raped or sodomized either. However, the method of killing was very unconventional and Mac was ready to affirm them to be occult serial murders. Some of the media had already given the perpetrator the name 'Vampiric Killer' or simply 'The Vampire'. But Mac knew better. There was no vampire afoot. This was the work of a perverted, psychologically deranged person with a penchant for blood and the mystique. And he was posing a challenge to the NYPD. So much could be said as he had intentionally left his victims out in the open at places where they would be found even by the simplest of observations. He wanted to see if the police could catch him by playing a dangerous game of 'Find me or another kid dies'.

Straightening, Mac turned when Lindsay and Danny arrived at the scene.

"I want the two of you to process the scene. Undoubtedly, this is not the initial crime scene but I still want this entire area searched for any traces of evidence. Flack, I want you to speak to the friends and family of the victim. Ask them for anything they might know about the case. I'll meet you all back at the lab."

Mac then turned and left to seek out the Central Park Police. With all the bodies, at least the ones they know of, being deposited at the enormous park, he was certain that they were going to need their help in catching whoever it was who was behind this. The Central Park Crime Prevention team needed to be alerted. Proper security measures needed to be carried out. And then, there was the media to be taken care of. He had no doubt that this case will be the talk of everyone by the day's evening, if not sooner. But somehow, he had a feeling that all this publicity would only make the killer more pleased with his handiwork.

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

Life. The course of life. So unpredictable in its ways. One minute you're happy, surrounded by love and family, then the next, you're the only one left, with nothing but a blur of memories of the good times. You can't stop it, you can't change it. So all you can do is follow where it leads you, for the better or worse. Sometimes, good things happen. Sometimes, bad things happen. And sometimes, annoying, infuriating, extremely exasperating things happen. But that's life. And you've got to learn to live with it. 'Coz you can't kill it, try as you might.

My name is Leifr Windchurch. I was born Harry Potter. I am seven years old. And I am currently watching both of my parents make out…… Dinner! I meant make _dinner_!

Leifr sighed inaudibly again for perhaps the third time. His father was standing at the kitchen island, cutting vegetables. Or rather, he would be if only Col was not behind him, arms wrapped around his father's waist, whispering only-they-know-what into his ear. Once in a while, the blonde would look as though he was holding in a laugh, then he would nudge Col in a reprimanding manner. Five minutes later, the same thing would happen again. Leifr felt his eyes narrow slightly when soft giggles — _giggles!_ — erupted from the duo.

"Dad, perhaps you find this immensely enjoyable but I, for one, am hungry and would like to have dinner soon." He deadpanned.

Julian looked up with a mildly apologetic expression. "Dinner will be ready shortly, Leifr." Then he turned to put the chopped up vegetables away, absently slapping away Col's hand when he made to steal a cube of carrot. The offending raven simply smiled and eventually went about helping Julian with the preparation. Leifr let his shoulders slump in exasperation. He was so used to his parents' antics, it wasn't even amusing or irritating anymore. Leaving his place at the large mahogany dining table, he opted to wait in the lounge where, hopefully, he wouldn't be able to see or hear the two lovebirds. Nearly two years had passed since the day Col became the newest addition to their small family and Julian still acted as though they've just gotten married.

Reclining on the couch, Leifr turned on the television and absently surfed the channels for something to pass the time. By his estimate, it was another twenty more minutes before he could expect food to be on the table. Thirty, if Col misbehaved.

'Cartoon… commercial… drama series… news… news… new— What?'

Sitting up and bringing his full attention to what the newsreader was saying, Leifr deftly turned up the volume and glued his eyes to the screen.

"… Police have refrained from giving comments but rumours are circulating due the nature of these murders. The people have dubbed the killer 'The Vampire' for his obsession with killing his victims by draining their blood. Like the others before him, the latest victim, a sixteen year old student, was also found in Central Park. The police have no suspect in the case as of yet but are urging the public to come forward should they have information to offer. The authorities and Central Park police have issued words of caution to the people of New York to be on guard for any sign of the perpetrator and to be extra careful when traversing in Central Park. In other news, a series of kidnappings have been reported to be spreading throughout Brooklyn and …"

The rest of the news said nothing more on 'The Vampire' murders. Listening to just a bit more before turning off the television, Leifr made his way back into the dining room, where the silverware was already being set.

"Father, I was just watching the news and there was a report about some serial killer called 'The Vampire'. Apparently, he murders his victims by depleting them of blood. The bodies were all found in Central Park."

His parents paused in their movements. Scrutinizing their faces, Leifr saw some unreadable emotion in their eyes. Deeming the silence had stretched on long enough, he went in for the kill.

"There was a picture of one victim with puncture marks on his neck."

The pause lasted a moment more before simultaneous laughter erupted from the three of them. It took them a while to regain their composure which after, Julian continued tending to the chicken in the oven.

"Some people just have too much time on their hands."

Unknown to them, by tomorrow their little private joke would cease to be funny.

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

Vampires are odd creatures, they are. Really, how else could a person who, by all rights should be dead, walk around talking and eating without a care in the world? They live and interact among humans whom they regard as their livestock yet they are perfectly content with that arrangement. How strange is that? It would be like living among chickens or vegetables. Not to mention, they seem to have an unexplainable sort of morbid amusement whenever it came to their 'walking blood banks'. Nevertheless, these undead creatures never involve themselves with the affairs of men. They lead a life of secrecy, hiding away from the sun in the day. Night is when their world collides with ours. Under the veil of darkness, they emerge to share our wonderful life-force, pumping through our veins and arteries like sweet nectar. When day comes, they leave again, us humans none the wiser, knowing only the blinding ecstasy they left behind in their wake. Such a harmonious relationship had worked for them, and us, for more than two millennia. Only a privileged few truly know the truth about these beings, and how is it they have hidden from us for so long.

Just as with humans, vampires have evolved through the passage of time. Being so different, their necessities almost parasitic, their abilities have changed to accommodate their survival. Telekinesis to allow better access to victims, inhumane strength to subdue enemies, enhanced senses for hunting, shadow camouflage and mind magic for secrecy, immunity to illness in place of their body's nonexistent resistance towards viruses, and lastly, bodily regeneration to make up for the dead cells which no longer replicate. But even with all that, vampires in the past still faced the dilemma of concealing their successful hunts. Surely the constant emergence of two shallow stab wounds close to major arteries on their victims will draw attention. That was when they adapted to use other means, via their sharp nails. By drawing small cuts and drinking their fill from various different places on different victims, they leave behind no traceable patterns for the humans to discern, confusing them into believing that they had gained the wounds by accident. This was the way of the vampires until the late eleventh century before their bodies evolved yet again. Recognizing the need for even better concealment, their innate vampiric magic turned towards the one thing it can change to erase all evidence of the victims having been preyed on by a vampire; their saliva. By altering it into a curative substance, it would effectively heal the injuries caused by the vampires in order to feed. This new development brought back the existence of fangs to the vampires, who, for a short period of time, had lost their sharp canines when there proved to be no use for them. As a result, after centuries of evolution and practice, modern vampires have acquired the best of abilities in defense and secrecy, blending in flawlessly among ignorant humans in their everyday life.

'Which makes this entire case ridiculous.' Thought Leifr as he gazed at the headlines on the New York Times propped up upon the water pitcher in front of him. 'Any idiot with an ounce of sense would realize that the killer is some sort of occultist with a fetish for playing vampire. A _real_ vampire wouldn't be stupid enough to leave evidence of himself behind, much less be inclined to do so. And even if he had wanted to, he couldn't. The instant he drinks from the victim, he's already ensured that the wound would heal by the time he's done. There's no possible way that he'd leave so obvious a mark on his victims' necks. Then again, majority of the human populace is unaware of that fact.'

Leifr sighed and looked up from the daily to his father who was standing at the sink. "Father, what do you make of this 'Vampire' case?"

Julian spared him a glance from the dishes. "Leifr, you know as well as I do that it's a fraud. No point in concerning yourself over it. Humans have always done some of the most unexplainable things in history. I wouldn't be surprised if this turns out to be some religious ploy to antagonize the public into ostracizing occult practitioners. It certainly sounds like something the humans of now would do."

"But aren't you angry? Whoever who's doing this is, in a way, putting all the blame on vampires. I'd have thought that you and dad would show some reaction at least, other than laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it."

"What _can_ we do other than that? Getting angry will not solve anything and we have no desire to delve into the problems of men, as is our law. Granted, it's actually more for their safety than ours. Can you imagine what would happen if a vampire fought with a normal human on equal terms? There wouldn't be enough left of the poor mortal to bury."

"Well, when you put it that way…" trailed Leifr. He supposed his father was right. There's nothing they can do to stop the perpetrator. But that didn't mean he was going to be happy about it. The bloody git was slandering the honour of his parents and their clansmen. Not to mention, he was using Central Park, the same Central Park across the street from his home, as his own personal dumping ground. It was maddening.

"Hey, slugger. Still eating?" Col entered the kitchen with a piece of rag in his hands, wiping the multi-coloured paint off his fingers. Leifr mock glared and handed him the NY Times silently. The ebony haired vampire took one look at the headlines and snorted, shaking his head.

"Leifr, finish your pancakes before they get cold. We're having Anatomy today and I won't be pleased if we have to stop halfway through the morning because you got hungry." said Julian as he finished with the dishes.

"Yes, father." Leifr answered and obediently turned his attention back to the flat pieces of dough covered with raspberry jam on his plate. He was willing to happily admit that his father made the best pancakes ever. Actually, if he thought about it, Julian made the best of just about everything. The vampire was a god in the kitchen, a feat which had kept them both alive for the past few years. The addition of Col hadn't help much as he was just as culinary-literate as a mule. Luckily for them, the older vampire enjoyed cooking. Though, as Leifr stared disapprovingly at Col who was attempting to neck Julian while washing his paint-stained hands, he was pretty sure that it wasn't the only thing he was good at.

The demise of the last of his pancakes was met with the soft chiming of the doorbell. Both his parents looked up in puzzlement as it was rare for anyone to visit them.

"I'll get it." said Col as he dried off his hands and made his way over to the entrance hall. Leifr watched him go then quickly gathered his soiled tableware to place in the sink. By the time he reached the main sitting room, his dad was showing in two serious looking men wearing suits.

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

"So I spoke to the vic's classmates and they all said that he was alone with the artist when they left. That was already close to eleven. They didn't hear from him since."

"And the security guard confirmed that Peterson left at that time?"

Flack nodded. "He also said that the artist stopped by not five minutes later to drop off the hall key and left immediately after. Didn't even say good night."

The elevator reached the seventh floor and gave a quiet dingle.

"Well, let's hope he doesn't mind a good morning greeting then." said Mac as they stepped out of the elevator and walked down the short hallway to the door reading number thirty-four. There was a small elaborate button next to the entrance which Flack pushed, rightfully assuming that it was the doorbell.

A few moments later, the thick wooden door swung inwards to reveal a pale but handsome man with jet black hair and deep blue eyes. He was wearing a sleeveless white turtleneck, baring lean, muscular arms, and a pair of dark denim jeans. Taking in his appearance quickly, Mac noticed the faint paint stains lingering on his fingers.

"Mr. Col Hargrea, we presume?"

The man raised a cool eyebrow in surprise and nodded.

"I'm Detective Mac Taylor and this is Detective Flack. We'd like to ask you a few questions about the art lecture you gave several days ago."

Hargrea paused only for a brief moment before relenting. "Sure, please come in."

Murmuring a thanks, the two of them were led into what appeared to be a conventional English sitting room just as a small figure entered from another doorway to their left. It was a young boy, perhaps no older than six or seven, with black hair and vibrant green eyes. Mac was almost taken aback at how much they resembled his late wife's, but hers was a much lighter shade, not nearly as brilliant as those which were currently staring at him and Flack.

"This is my son, Leifr."

Mac smiled-grimaced at the child who cheerily called out a merry yet polite hello. Those large green eyes were focused unnervingly on him and Flack. Just then, another man, this one a blonde, came through the same way as the boy. Dressed in black slacks and a button up blue shirt which brought out the colour of his eyes, the detective could think of no other way to describe him other than the word beautiful, regardless of Mac's sexual orientation. The man's long honey blond hair fell around his face and shoulders, contrasting with the dark fabric of his shirt, in turn calling attention to his light complexion.

"And this is my partner, Julian Windchurch."

If Flack had been uncomfortable with the newly revealed relationship between the two gorgeous young men, he didn't show it when he re-introduced them.

"I'm Detective Donald Flack and this is Detective Mac Taylor. We're here to ask Mr.Hargrea a few questions about his work."

"I see. Please, have a seat." said the blonde.

As the two of them and Hargrea moved towards the couches and armchairs, Windchurch went to the boy who was still staring at them in an odd sort of fascination.

"Leifr, why don't you go read up on our lesson before we start?"

"But……" The boy hesitated and turned towards Hargrea with large, pleading puppy eyes.

The raven smiled ruefully. "Go on."

The boy then sighed in a decidedly put-out fashion. "Alright." And left after receiving a light kiss to the temple from Windchurch.

"Would you like something to drink, detectives?"

Mac and Flack both declined and began the interview as soon as the blonde was seated.

"Mr.Hargrea, two days ago, on the twelfth of June, you gave a talk on art at the New York University Steinhardt."

"Yes. It was rather successful. The students were all very passionate and seemed very interested in what I had to say."

"We were told that several students had stayed behind to speak to you concerning your job."

"Yes, there were a few."

"Do you remember a Gus Peterson among them?"

"Gus Peterson… Ah, yes. Dark blond, brown eyes. The kid had zeal of steel. Rather cute."

"Cute?"

Mac glanced to the side to see Windchurch looking at Hargrea with an exaggerated amount of innocent surprise.

"In a strictly off-limits kind of way." The raven hastily replied without looking at his partner. Flack hurriedly moved onto the next question.

"What time did the both of you leave?"

"Mm… Around eleven I think. He left before me."

"And how long had you been alone with him in the hall?"

Here, Hargrea frowned at Flack. "Ten, fifteen minutes tops... What is this about? You're asking more about Gus than you are about me."

Mac grimaced and slid a large photo out of an envelope. "Is this him?"

The photo was one of the first few headshots of the third victim at the crime scene. He watched as Hargrea gave no outward reaction except a small widening of the eyes to the deathly pale picture of the sixteen year old.

"Yeah… Yeah, that's Gus. What happened to him?"

"He was murdered sometime between midnight to four a.m. on the morning after your lecture. Where were you after you left?"

"I returned the hall key to the security guard, came back and went to bed."

"Can anyone verify that?"

Windchurch answered. "He was with me the whole night."

Flack cleared his throat slightly. "Did you see Peterson or anyone else while you were leaving?"

"No. But Gus did mention that he was going to watch a movie with a friend afterwards. That was why he left. Wanted to stay and talk to me more, apparently."

"Did he give a name for that friend?"

"No, only that he was meeting him at the cinema. Didn't even say which one."

So far, what Hargrea said was consistent with their evidence and information. Mac and Flack continued with several more probing questions after that, but Hargea had an acceptable answer for each one. As the moments passed, it seemed more and more unlikely that the artist had been there when the victim was kidnapped and killed. However, seeing as he was their only lead in 'The Vampire' case at the moment, they'd just have to dig as much information out of him as possible. As a last resort, Mac took out the other photos of the first two victims.

"Do you recognize any of them?"

Hargrea studied the picture of the brunette for a moment before moving on to the blonde on the right. A light frown grew on his face.

"This one… What's his name… Charles… That's right. It's Charles isn't it?"

Mac and Flack sat up straighter.

"You know him?"

"Yeah. He works…" Pause. "_Worked_ at a hardware store some blocks away. I was there to pick out wood for a project. He helped me with the choosing and delivery."

"How long ago was this?" asked Mac.

Hargrea leaned back and hummed thoughtfully. "Mm… About a month? Month and a week? I can't really remember."

"But you remember his name?" asked Flack testily.

Hargrea grinned lopsidedly and snaked an arm around Windchurch's waist, resting his hand lightly on his boyfriend's hip. "What can I say? I have a thing for blondes."

"The fact is, Mr.Hargrea, you are probably one of the last few people to have seen both Mr.Wentley," Mac gestured to the photo of the blonde on the table. "and Mr.Peterson before their deaths. Is there anything at all that you remember which you think might be related to the case? Anything they said? Something you saw?"

Hargrea was quiet while he thought. "No. I don't think there is."

"What about here? Your apartment is directly across the street from Central Park. Have you seen any suspicious or odd activity around here recently?"

"I don't think so, I haven't noticed. Julian?"

The blonde shook his head and Mac gave a silent sigh.

"Thank you, Mr.Hargrea. Before we leave, do you mind if we take a look around?"

Hargrea paused and gave a glance at Windchurch who in turned shrugged one shoulder lightly. "By all means."

With their permission, Mac and Flack proceeded to eye around the confines of their home. The sitting room they were in seemed to be primarily for the purpose of receiving guests. Couches and armchairs were placed strategically near the large elaborate fireplace. On the opposite wall, there was a desk and a glass cabinet with several types of expensive liquor inside. Arching doorways connected the sitting room to a lounge and the kitchen-dining area. A quick overview of the lounge gave Mac the impression that it was the family living room. Besides a television and a modern audio-video system, there was a stretch of drawers along one wall, on top of which displayed dozens of framed photographs. Pictures of Hargrea's son dominated the collection, with him reading, swimming, feeding the pigeons, building a snowman, … Oddly, the pictures only dated back to when the boy must have already been four or five years old. Between the drawers and the television, a small balcony extended towards the west end of Central Park. Looking out, Mac could see a good portion of the park. Away from the lounge, the two detectives entered the next room which turned out to be a small gym. There were treadmills, weights, a home gym unit, a sandbag, and an area of padded floor. Further along, they came to a bright room filled with musical instruments with a polished grand piano being the proud centre piece. Along the walls, other instruments were held up by their appropriate stands. Mac could see two cases of violins, a cello, and several flutes. But what surprised him was the four foot long wooden object placed at a corner. Painted a dull red, it had numerous darker coloured rings on both ends with the bottom end slightly larger in diameter than the top end. Along its length were images of live snakes and crocodiles.

"Hn, a didjeridoo." mused Mac.

" 'What did you do?' " asked a confused Flack.

"A didjeridoo. It's an aboriginal Australian instrument that's like a long wooden trumpet. Produces a drone-like sound." replied Mac.

"It was a gift from a friend after his trip to Australia some years ago." supplied Windchurch.

Abandoning the music room, they moved through the door to another room, this time filled with upheld canvases. Beautiful conservative art, done in endless shades of colour, were being displayed on easels scattered about the area. There were a number of dried paintings stacked carefully in a corner next to a wide tool cabinet. Pushed against a wall was a table littered with sketching pencils, palettes, brushes, paint tubes, tins of dirty water, and anomalously, a wood carving set. Without a doubt, Mac realized that this must be Hargrea's work place.

"Be careful of that one on the right. It hasn't dried properly yet." said the artist as the two detectives moved deeper into the room. The aforementioned painting was of a young blond girl sitting on a swing in a dreamy, Secret Garden-esque setting. Looking around, Mac came to the honest opinion that Hargrea was rather talented as a painter, if the works on current display were any indication. Just then, a tall object covered in cloth caught his attention. It was placed further to the right of the room, away from all the paintings. Curious, Mac made to go closer when Hargrea intercepted him.

"That one's private. And I'm not finished with it yet."

Accepting the reason, the party of four headed to the next and last room. Upon entering, the detectives saw Hargrea's son reading a large tome at a long table. The boy looked up in surprise for a moment before smiling pleasantly at them. 'Good kid.' thought Mac absently as he gazed around. At first glance, one could tell that the room was a library or large study. Shelves and shelves of books took up much of the space. At one wall, there was a white board and a storage chest, while the opposite end of the room hosted an impressive writing desk. Some charts displaying intricate details of the inner human body were hung up next to the white board.

"We're having anatomy this week. Daddy says it's one of the most interesting things to learn about."

Mac turned back to Hargrea's son and noticed for the first time that the enormous tome in his small hands was actually a fully diagramed dictionary of the human body. An odd subject to be teaching to a young child. Hargrea didn't strike him as someone who would encourage his son to become a doctor, but one never knew.

Soon after, the adults left the library and returned to the sitting room.

"Thank you both for your time. If you remember anything at all, don't hesitate to call us." said Mac while handing Hargrea a small white card with his number in it. The artist simply smiled and agreed amicably. It was only until Mac and Flack were both securely in the elevator that the latter spoke up.

"It's no wonder women keep complaining that the good ones are always taken or gay. Just look at those two. They'd be right at home on magazine covers with the words 'Most Eligible Bachelors' plastered all over their faces. Mac, I don't know how much more of this I can take. First lesbian parents, now gay witnesses?" said Flack in a pained voice, recalling the much sobbing and crying he encountered when he went to interview Peterson's unconventional family.

"You know perfectly well that their sexual preference is none of our business. We follow the evidence, and if the evidence leads us right to their doorstep, that's where we go. Right now, with Hargrea checking out, we're back at square one with nothing substantial to hold on to. We need to go back to the victims and see if there's anything we've missed." replied Mac.

"I don't know, Mac. Hargrea looks pretty suspicious to me. I mean, he goes for a lecture, meets a boy who's later murdered and dumped at a park across from his apartment and even admits to knowing another victim in the case. Plus, the only person who can vouch for him not being there when Peterson was killed, is his boyfriend. Not to sound homophobic, but there's only so much weight attached to a lover's word when his or her partner is involved in a murder investigation."

"Evidence, Flack, evidence."

**Author's Note:** Finally, a sign of life from LOM. Yeah, I know I broke my promise and I know it's been forever since I've updated but school life is sucking the life out of me, literally. I'm in school from 7am to 5pm every week day with only a maximum of two 20 minute breaks in between. Talk about madness… Due to the long break, I'm kinda detached from the story so I'm going to have to really ask for your opinions on it so far. Bet no one expected a CSI crossover though. And both Julian and Col seem different here, I'll explain about that later on in the story. So review, but I can't guarantee the next chapter to be quick. Just pray, wish and hope that my teachers will be kind.

**kenishii** – I'm glad you liked the story and thanks for reviewing. Don't worry about the grammar, English ain't my first language either. No, I haven't any idea how many chapters this story will be but it'll be really, really, long cause I plan to do several arcs with several different… erm… you'll see eventually. Harry/Leifr… whether he'll be gay or not probably won't be discussed until the sequel. Yeah, my beta wants a sequel after hearing the plot. So be patient, and I'll try to make the story progress faster. Though, this particular chapter seems a bit badly written to me.

**Dhanika** – You go, girl! I have successfully converted you into a yaoi fangirl! Yay for me. Yea, Vincent is Julian's ex but wait, there'll be surprises in the future. And no, there will never be any shortage of yaoi goodness 'coz Col is insatiable. XD Thanks for reviewing.

Until next time (hopefully soon), good night everyone.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Beings We Are **

By: Lore or mess.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, I just write fanfictions. Anything else that seems familiar is also coincidental.

Warnings: This story contains homosexual relationships. Lot's of 'em. If you are offended by this or in any way feel uncomfortable, you have the choice to continue reading or forego reading this story. The choice is yours. However, I will not entertain any sort of derogatory comments made concerning this issue. This warning has been posted.

**Chapter 4 **

**CSI: Vampires in New York – Part II **

"Tox results are in. Chloroform, just like the other two. This one had higher amounts compared to the previous victims though."

Mac looked up as Danny entered his office with the latest results from their third victim. Receiving the file, he carefully studied the peaks of the chemicals. Danny was right, Peterson had nearly twice the amounts of chloroform in his bloodstream.

"Another thing. I spoke to the doc, and he found the tiniest hints of bruising on Peterson's knuckles. Kid must hav' fought back and the murderer had to use more chloroform to subdue him." said Danny.

"Any epitheliums?"

"Nope. The body was swabbed completely clean like the other two. The killer's either a professional or he's got a hard case of OCD."

Just then, Stella entered the office.

"Hey. I checked out all the stores in Manhattan which sell chloroform and none of them have sold any within the last two months. I'm thinking the killer made his own. It's a lot more untraceable. The only two components he needed were pool chlorine and acetone, which you can basically get from anywhere."

"But the same can be said for chloroform. I mean, besides stores, you can get it off the internet, from farms, agricultural suppliers… heck, even schools have them!" exclaimed Danny.

Something clicked in Mac's mind. "Schools… all the victims were teenagers."

"You suggesting this is an inside job, Mac? Some sort of homicide circle formed between students of different schools to get rid of their rivals? A bit sophisticated to have been done by a bunch of hormonally charged teenagers, don't you think?" asked Danny.

"It's still possible. If it's true, there has to be a connection somewhere. Tell Flack to go back to the victims' friends and family and recheck for any sort of unsavoury acquaintances that have relations to the other victims."

As soon as he'd finished, Mac's cell phone started ringing. It was Flack.

"Mac, we've got a would-be suspect in custody. Some sort of fight went off at NYU Steinhardt and I've got three men here who might know something about Peterson's death. You better come down before they screech for their lawyers."

"I'm on my way."

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

"I'm telling you, that goddamned son of a bitch told me he killed my son. Right before I broke his face."

"And then what happened, Mr.Kinney?"

"What do you think? I was going to rip his fucking balls off when your boys crashed the party."

Flack was in the middle of a conversation with a tall, middle-aged man when Mac arrived. Beside him, a younger, shorter man with blond hair stood looking as though he had lost his soul. Salt tracks were visible on his sunken cheeks and ugly, red rims framed his blank eyes.

"Any reason why you think Mr.Hobbs is the one who killed your son?" asked Flack.

"We were in high school together."

Both Mac and Flack turned their attention to the blonde. His voice sounded hoarse, perhaps from crying, and his gaze was not focused on their faces when he spoke.

"On our Prom Night, he attacked me with a baseball bat and put me in a coma for two weeks."

Flack paused momentarily. "Why did he do that?"

"Because he's a fucking homophobe! He must have found out that Gus was Brian's son and decided to finish what he couldn't all those years ago. He's a fucking… fucking……"

The blonde broke off and pressed the bottom of his palms against his eyes. He had started crying again in the middle of his sudden outburst. The taller man went to him and pulled him into a tight embrace, whispering softly to him and letting the blonde bury his face into his shoulder. Flack considerately moved away to give them some space after muttering a soft thank you.

"What was that about?" asked Mac.

"Brian Kinney and Justin Taylor. Kinney is Peterson's biological father. He's close friends with Peterson's mother and was the sperm donor when she wanted to have a kid. They still keep in close contact. Taylor is Kinney's partner. The two of them went to NYU Steinhardt today to see Christian Hobbs," Flack gestured towards the see-through questioning room where a man sat, sporting a bloody tissue over his nose. "who works there as a gym instructor. A heated argument was followed by a brawl and my boys were called so I brought them back here."

"All right, maybe one of them knows something. Let's start with Hobbs."

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

Leifr finished buttoning the coat and turned around to face his father, arms outstretched.

"What do you think?"

Julian nodded approvingly from where he was seated upon a cushioned stool.

"I think it's too bland." Col commented quietly.

Leifr looked down at himself. He was wearing a white cotton shirt under a navy blue sweater completed with black slacks and a deep grey coat which reached his calves. Looking back up, he saw Col reaching over to one of the rails, picking out a ruby shaded shirt with elegant silver embroidery on the left shoulder.

"Try this on."

An assistant immediately came to help Leifr discard the coat and sweater before following him half-way to the dressing rooms, ensuring he didn't loose his way there. 'Really', thought Leifr wryly, 'you'd think they'd have noticed by now that I'm not your average screaming brat.' He stepped back out of the dressing room, dressed in the ruby shirt to see his parents choosing a multitude of clothing from every which style the posh children's clothing store could offer. Another assistant was with them, professionally handling the articles they handed to her.

They were doing clothes shopping seeing as he would be attending day school come September. When Leifr had asked what was wrong with his existing clothes, Julian had firmly stated that no child of his would be seen dressed as a common plebian, regardless that all the clothes in Leifr's closet were designer labels. Initially, Col had argued that it was still a bit early to decide on clothes as styles tend to change within weeks, but Julian had given him a _look_ and the dark haired vampire had folded like a house of cards.

"No. White is unflattering on Leifr. He is best presented in dark colours."

"We can't expect him to dress in dark hues all the time. Some might think him depressive." argued Col.

Leifr watched them debate over how to dress him best and fought the urge to roll his eyes. If he had to name one thing his parents had in common when it came to their personalities, it was their vanity. Both Julian and Col were terribly vain about their images and presentations. Leifr guessed it came with vampire territory, especially those who had lived through the Renaissance and Romantic periods. Col, who was only 291 years old, probably got the bulk of it from his prideful noble lineage and from living with Julian for so long.

Blocking out the soft bickering voices of his parents, Leifr let his mind wonder to the reason why they were even there in the first place. Southeil Institute of Thaumaturgy.

Leifr didn't know a whole lot about the school, besides the fact that it acted as much more than a simple academy for magical children. It was a global institution, with several highly secured portals scattered around every country. No one actually knew where the school was located and if they did, they wouldn't or couldn't tell. He had noted that there weren't many rules to observe when it came to applying. The hardest part was actually contacting the school for enrolment. Very few students were invited preliminarily by the school while the rest requested entrance by whatever means it was they used. Leifr still wasn't sure how his father had managed his enrolment when Julian himself had been traditionally home schooled before he was turned and had never shown any interest in sending Leifr to any sort of institution. He supposed it was a good change though. Leifr had rarely strayed far from his apartment home in New York and the chance to venture out further was stimulating. It would be a rather big adjustment for him, seeing as he had only ever had his parents and a small number of friends for constant company.

Leifr snapped out of this wonderings in time to see his parents moving over to the cash register with the assistant in tow. His own assistant was gently ushering him towards them, his previous clothes neatly folded and draped on one of her arms. It seemed he would be wearing his new clothes out of the store.

Leifr patiently went to stand next to Julian as the cashier tallied up their purchases. It appeared that his parents have settled for a small number of lighter coloured clothing as apposed to the three quarters of dark reds, greens, blues and greys.

"We need to get you some more winter wear. Your school is mostly in session during the colder seasons." said Julian quietly. Resigned to his fate and resisting the urge to tell his father that he already had enough jackets and coats to last him a lifetime, Leifr could only nod and hope to escape to Bicky's to recuperate once this shopping excursion was over.

After several swipes of Julian's platinum credit card and two or three signatures later, they were getting ready to leave the store when Leifr happened to glance up at the computer screen where the total amount of their purchases blinked in bold black numbers innocently. An alarmed double take later, he decided that he never again wanted to know exactly how much his clothes cost the next time his parents had an urge to spurge on him.

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

"Mac."

Mac looked up wearily as Lindsay approached him with a folder in her hands. He (almost) desperately hoped she had something worthwhile to tell him after the many dead-ends they had ran head-long into for the past few days: Flack was still investigating the possibility of a secret society in link with the deaths of the teenagers but so far he had found nothing; Danny and Stella were ruthlessly following every witness and lead, to no avail; The interrogation of Christian Hobbs had been useless: the man was only reacting foolishly when he provoked Kinney and Taylor. There was also no trace of physical trauma — besides his very recently broken nose courtesy of Kinney — on his person which would fit the circumstances of Peterson's bruised knuckles. Plus, he had solid alibis on each of the nights the teenagers disappeared. For Mac, it was maddening as their nearly non-existent evidence continued to turn up worthless and time was running out. Pretty soon, the murderer will strike again and the detective would be damned if he let him get away with it once more.

"Lindsay, tell me you have good news."

The younger CSI smiled at him. "As a matter of fact, I have." She turned the folder over to him. "Remember how you always said we needed to listen to the evidence? Well, since we ran out of them, I figured the only place left to look was at the bodies. I was looking at the first victim's clothes, Charles Wentley?, when I noticed a smudge on his left sleeve."

Mac opened the folder to see a photograph of Wentley's battered denim jacket. The college student had been found still wearing it where he was tangled in the branches of a tree. Another photo showed a zoomed in version of the article, with the left sleeve as the focus.

"Notice the almost invisible blue smear?"

True to her word, there was an imperceptible blue smear on the similarly blue garment. Mac wouldn't have seen it at all if Lindsay hadn't mentioned it to him.

"I took a sample and ran it through trace. It came back as a mixture of organic oils and ultramarine pigments, essentially the components of blue oil paint. But here's the shocker. Instead of the common French ultramarine, these pigments were derived from processed Lapis Lazuli."

Mac looked up at Lindsay with a speculative frown. "Oil paint made from precious stones? That's expensive substance."

"I know. So I searched through the database for all Lapis Lazuli oil paint suppliers and there's only one available in the state of New York" The address and description of a company in the Upper East End was presented neatly on a document behind the photographs.

Mac felt a sense of satisfaction and pride as he offered the younger CSI a rare smile. "Good work, Lindsay. Get Flack and Stella on it immediately. I want every single name the supplier has and just in case he tries to be difficult, make sure they have a warrant on hand."

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

Mac stared at the door in front of him with an unexplainable expression. He couldn't say he didn't expect to be back here, but he just had a slight feeling that everything was a little too… too something.

Ringing the doorbell, it was only several moments later before the door was opened to reveal Windchurch in jeans and a thin cotton shirt. His blonde hair was in a loose ponytail and there was a pleasant smile on his face which seemed to dim slightly when he saw who was at the door.

"Detectives Taylor and Flack, how may I help you?"

"We need to speak with you and Mr.Hargrea about Charles Wentley." They didn't ask to be invited in.

The attractive man paused momentarily before bidding them into the apartment. Joyful childish laughter came from the living room as they made their way deeper inside. The three came upon the very picture of perfect family bliss as they took in the sight of Leifr and Hargrea sitting on opposite sides of a board game. Surprisingly, it looked to be the game of Risk. Mac was rather fond of the game himself especially after he'd retired from the Marines, but frankly, he thought the game a bit too advanced for children below ten. Again, another incident to prove that the young child in front of him was more intellectually sophisticated then the average kid, no doubt the doings of his parents.

Leifr's laughter had a tinge of glee in it and Hargrea was looking plaintively at his son. One look at the board and Mac could immediately tell why.

"Just the infantry left Dad and Africa's mine!"

Hargrea gave his son the evil eye. "Oh yeah? I wouldn't be too confident if I were you. Your hold on Europe's looking a bit shaky."

Windchurch chose this time to chip in. "Perhaps if the adult would come down from his high horse, he would be able to see that the child has already crippled him."

"Hey, that's not fair! Double-teaming!"

That was the moment that Hargrea looked over and noticed Mac and Flack for the first time. With his eyebrows raised questioningly, he glanced at Windchurch who had moved to sit beside Leifr on the couch.

"Leifr, it's time for your violin practice. You can finish the game later."

Leifr looked up at Windchurch in horror. "But—but…" he looked alternately at the board, Hargrea and back at Windchurch. Even Mac could tell that he was just half a dozen turns short of kicking his father off the board permanently. He must be feeling rather sore.

"No buts. The game will still be here after you're done but I won't let you skip practice. I want you to play Chopin's Funeral March as a violin sonata. We discussed this last Thursday and I know you understand the essence of it. I want you to try it out first without any pointers from me."

'Isn't that a bit difficult for a child?' thought Mac but he wisely kept his counsel to himself.

"What if I mix it up?" asked Leifr uncertainly.

Windchurch smiled and ran his fingers through the young boy's black hair soothingly. "I'll be along shortly after I speak with your dad."

"Okay…" Looking longingly at the Risk board for the last time, the child rose and left, having never noticed Mac and Don standing at the entrance to the room.

"Detectives, please sit." The board was moved from the centre table and placed to the side.

The atmosphere immediately became tenser as the scene from last week was replayed in the living room.

"I'm surprised to see you again detectives. I've already told you all I have to say. I assume there is a sound reason for this revisit in the middle of my son's play time." Hargrea's voice was pleasant but there was underlying annoyance in his polite tone.

"You see, that's the problem. You say you've told us everything but you forgot to mention that Charles Wentley had been in this house." said Flack smartly.

"He wasn't." Hargrea's answer was quick and confident. "I've told you before. He helped me deliver the wood, but only until the front door. I'm not particularly fond of strangers entering my home so I carried it in myself."

The dark-haired man's words had a double meaning behind them, one which Flack ignored as he pulled out a large photograph from the envelope he was carrying.

"Then how do you explain this?"

Hargrea scrutinized the picture with an almost bored expression on his face. "It's a paint smear." He looked up with a raised eyebrow as though to say, "So?"

"Not just any paint. It's oil paint made from Lapis Lazuli. Something which we both know is not easily available. Unless you're an artist, of course. Well, you'd have to be rich too, what with it being made from precious stones. Imagine our surprise when we found," Here, Flack switched his attention from Hargrea to Windchurch. "Mr. Windchurch's name on the supplier's list of prize customers."

Windchurch leaned back into the couch and answered the unspoken question in a cool and calm voice. "Yes, it is true. I periodically order Lapis Lazuli oil paint from Italy. Col's line of work requires any sort of edge he can give and the Lapis Lazuli always looks more significant than the common synthetic one."

"So a dead boy turns up with a paint smear on his clothes, paint that we know only the two of you had access to in the whole of New York. Where does that leave us?" Flack asked, voice barely concealing his accusatory tone.

"Nowhere significant, unfortunately. Detective, you are forgetting that Col is a prominent artist. His works are highly sought after. It is just as likely that the boy acquired the smear from brushing against any one of Col's sold paintings." Windchurch was the epitome of the saying, 'cool as a cucumber'.

"Really now? But you know what I think is _more_ likely? I think that maybe Mr.Hargrea here thought that Peterson was more than a little cute and offered him a personal tour of his workroom. That would have interested the blonde, wouldn't it? A rare chance to see the real artist behind the scenes? A little persuasion was probably all he needed to lure the kid here."

Now, that was unacceptable for Hargrea.

"_Lure?_" The look Hargrea gave Flack thoroughly implied that he thought the detective's intelligence and common sense quotient sums up to less than zero. "Are you implying that I would actually seek to sleep with a wet-behind-the-ears brat? Or anyone else for that matter? Do you need _visual aid_, detective? Have you seen — no, have you honestly_ seen_ Julian?"

Hargrea's incredulous look actually managed to make Flack's face take on a miserable tinge when he realized that the artist was right in asserting that Windchurch was leagues more attractive than anyone he'd ever met before, male or female. Mac was hard pressed not to agree with him.

Windchurch on the other hand was looking a hint smug and the small smile that had been on his lips turned into a delicate smirk for a moment before returning to a serene upturn of lips. He shifted slightly so that his shoulder brushed lightly with Hargrea's and it was at that precise moment that Mac realized that he had it wrong all along.

Hargrea didn't control this relationship. Windchurch did. And he had the artist perfectly wrapped around his little finger.

"There really is nothing for you to go on here, Detectives. We had nothing to do with these murders. You would have better luck asking the people you meet on the street."

"Be that as it may," Mac pulled out a folded slip of paper from his coat. "We have a warrant to search your home and to take anything which we think may be related to the case. If you truly have nothing to hide, there is no reason to not cooperate."

Hargrea stared at the warrant in his hand in an incomprehensive manner. No, Mac could tell that he understood perfectly well what was being said. The man looked to be more stunned by the sheer incredulity Mac had presented to him. This gave the detective a niggling feeling that the man was used to having things his way more often than not.

"You realize, of course, that this brings lawyers into play."

It was a statement, not a question. And Windchurch was angry. Mac could see it in his steely blue eyes.

"But while you both go make your calls, my boys and I will be helping ourselves to Mr.Hargrea's workroom." said Flack and he stood and proceeded to pilfer said workroom with a couple of uniformed officers who had mysteriously shown up at the doorway.

At that, Hargrea seemed to snap out of whatever disbelief-induced daze he was in. Casting a quick glance to Windchurch, he practically leaped from his seat and hastened after the retreating backs of the officers, no doubt intent on making sure they did not damage any of his precious materials with their inexperienced handling.

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

In the room next to theirs, standing discreetly in the shadows of the arching door way, Leifr cursed so colourfully and so creatively that had Julian heard him, dessert would fade altogether as a distant dream.

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

Col's fingers inched.

They inched so badly.

He watched narrowly as they continued taking out his new paints from his supply cabinet and packed them away in their hideous little cardboard boxes. He glared when one of them was a little too rough with handling his brushes and he literally snarled when one of his carving utensils was dropped.

All in all, he was a being a total arse. And he felt that he had every right to be.

These people, these _humans_ come into his house and proceed to accuse him of adultery, of_ cheating_ on his beloved and son — _the nerve!_ — and, as if that wasn't insult enough, to insinuate he had anything to do with those fake-vampire murders. Then they even had the gall to use their _petty_ human legislative laws to confiscate his possessions. _His!_

Yes, he was angry and no, he was not adverse to some human-bashing at the moment.

Col watched as _'Dance of a Princess' _was removed from her perch on an easel and stacked along with other paintings to be relocated. It was a portrait of a dancing Emeral surrounded by her fellow Indians around a campfire which he had painted about a week back. He had thought it a nice gift to give her when they met next. Now he didn't even know when he'd be getting it back. Not _too_ long if either Julian or himself had anything to say about it.

The blonde vampire was making the call to Pearys at that very moment. Let the head councilman send someone to fix this problem. All Col wanted was his normal life back. His anonymity. His art. And all the time he could have to fuck Julian senseless. Life used to be normal that way.

Until that retarded vampire-wannabee showed up.

The expression on Col's face soured but the officers on duty ignored him as they went on their merry way, robbing him of one of his immortal life's few joys. One of the detectives — the less hateful one; the more hateful one had left earlier to direct the other officers outside — entered the workroom, surveying the work being done. Then he moved towards the right, stance seemingly intent on something.

Realizing what he was about to do, Col struggled to not simply dive across the large room. But he still managed to only reach and block him in time thanks to his vampiric abilities.

"No. Not this one. I'm not finished with it yet."

"So I've heard the first time. Unfortunately, whatever this is, it's grouped under police evidence now. You have no say. No stand aside or I'll have to ask one of my men to escort you out of this room."

The less hateful detective, who was actually quite hateful now, extended his hand to the side, indicating for Col to move. A movement at the corner of his eye drew Col's attention and turned his head to see Julian moving into the room, phone-call apparently over. It was the worst timing ever and Col was seriously starting to hate the NYPD.

"Mr.Hargrea."

Col gritted his teeth. There was nothing for it; he would _not_ be thrown out of his own workroom. He stepped aside.

The detective showed no expression on his face as he neared the towering figure and pulled on the cloth covering it.

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

Mac stared at the wooden statue in front of him, confusion slowly settling onto his face. It was, as far as he could see, a personification of the Virgin Mother, with the Son of God cradled in her arms. The craftwork was meticulous and astounding. Every single detail of Mary's robe was carved with such precision that it looked as smooth as though she was wearing it in real life. Several wisps of hair escaped the veil on her head to frame around her face, which was gazing lovingly down at the childe in her embrace. It was a magnificent piece, and would probably fetch a very nice sum if it caught the attention of the right collector. But it was incomplete. Near the foot of the statue, Mac could see some inconsistencies and work on the back was not finished either.

Strange. It was rare for Mac to misjudge people and the detective really hadn't pegged Hargrea to be a religious man. And at this level of devotion.

A soft gasp from the side brought his attention to Windchurch, who was staring at the statue with wide eyes. A moment later had Mac whipping his head back to the wooden figurine, scrutinizing it carefully once more. Once confirmed, he realized that Hargrea had a very sound reason to be angry with them earlier when Flack insinuated that he had been cheating on Windchurch. Because they had been mocking his commitment to his partner and here was the very proof that his commitment was perhaps the one thing which was unquestionable.

It wasn't a statue of the Virgin Mary; it was a representation of Julian Windchurch.

And Mac would bet that the infant in his arms was Leifr.

"It was supposed to be for our anniversary."

Hargrea was giving Windchurch a soft look, shrugging apologetically. "Supposed to be." He then gave Mac an unbelievably dirty look which only softened after Windchurch tugged gently on his arm.

Mac glanced back at the statue. He could relate with Hargrea and his ire. If someone had told him that they wanted to take away something of Clare's after she'd died or even while she'd still been alive, he would have told them to go do something anatomically impossible with themselves. Similarly, in their reversed positions, it was probably what Hargrea was aching to say to him. But work was work, and the artist was still a suspect.

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

Leifr automatically moved out of the way as several officers worked to carry _'the statue'_ out of his dad's workroom.

'Uh-oh.'

Hastening his steps, he reached said room in record time only to find his dad and the Taylor detective locked in some heated staring match.

"I'll need a list of all your previous and existing clients. Anyone who's bought or sold any of your works before."

Col raised a chilly eyebrow. "I'm afraid I can't help you there. It's not as though I have the time or convenience to remember them all." The look on the ebony-haired vampire's face could only be described as thinly-veiled disdain for the mortal before him, and Leifr knew why. His dad had worked like a madman on that statue for weeks just to get it ready for the anniversary of that special day he and Julian officially got together. And to Col, nothing, _NOTHING_ was more important than Julian. And Leifr himself, of course. It was actually quite amazing that Col hadn't attempted to tackle the officers when they took his beloved statue away. Then again, that was probably what that hand of Julian's on Col's arm was for.

Mac Taylor stared hard at Col and a strong silence prevailed for several moments. Leifr could practically feel the harsh friction of auras between them. But as always, his calm, diplomatic father saved the day.

"You'll have to speak to Col's dealer for that information detective. Miss Venus Clayman. I think her number is listed in the directory."

The detective tore his eyes away from Col and nodded in thanks. "Your possessions will be returned to you as soon as we're done inspecting them." Here, the Taylor man gave them both a quick once over. "We'll be in touch."

"So will our lawyer." replied Julian amicably.

'Oh, you in trouble now human.'

With not much to do around the house besides study, Leifr had perfected the art of reading his parents' expressions over the years. And that smile, that far-too-cordial reply, that gleam in Julian's eyes… was not good. He knew the detective could see it as well when he grimaced ever so slightly.

The man then turned and left, steps faltering only fractionally upon seeing him at the doorway. If not for his exceptionally developed senses, Leifr might not have been able to spot that slight pause and compunction expertly hidden in the man's stature from where he stood, head reaching only slightly above the man's waist. Opting to milk it for all it was worth, the seven year old smiled brilliantly and innocently up at him.

'Boy, am I piling on the guilt. That's right, you ought to feel guilty, home robber.'

He could see the effect on the man almost instantly. A slight shift of the eyes, minute evasion from his person and a ram-rod straight back. The final blow was when Leifr blinked childishly and formed a small confused frown on his face.

"Detective Taylor," he put a bit of whine in it too. "why are you taking Daddy's things?"

The detective cleared his throat a tad bit uncomfortably. "We're just using them to help us find a very bad person. He'll get them back soon."

"Oh, okay then. I hope you catch this bad person quickly. Because Daddy gets really silly without his art." Big happy smile again.

The man smile-grimaced at him once more — 'Does this man have constipation or something?' — before walking away without another word.

Leifr watched him go quietly, relishing in the fact that he had just parted a large amount of guilt onto the unsuspecting man. He made sure the detective was safely out of sight before slowly dropping the smile from his face.

Walking into the now mostly empty artroom, Leifr came upon the scene of both his parents staring intensely into space. Several stifling moments passed with them doing absolutely nothing.

"So…… What are we going to do about the humans?" asked Leifr casually, with complete disregard for the tension in the room.

Col snapped out of his daze with pursed lips. "Well, they aren't keeping my stuff. Or else they'll find out that vampires aren't as make-believe as they think them to be."

"I've already notified Pearys. He's sending Hadrian over on the first flight available." replied Julian calmly.

Col raised an impressed eyebrow. "Hadrian? _That_ Hadrian? Well, he ought to put a large hole in their sail. Trust head councilman Skayle to set things right. Always knew the old man dotted on you." He finished with a teasing smile for Julian.

"In the mean time, we'd best do our own research. Humans were and still are on the list of the thickest species in existence. While this case has nothing to do with us, it's a different kettle of fish when they begin to embroil us in their paltry crimes." Julian's eyes narrowed speculatively, flicking around the empty artroom in hidden displeasure. "I'd rather not leave this matter in their hands if I can help it. Hadrian may be here to assist us, but this is our turf. And it's long since past the time I paid an old friend a visit anyway."

Silence reigned as the occupants of the room grasped the current situation.

"So, Dad. With your stuff gone, how about finishing that game?"

Leifr was the epitome of a cherub as he asked.

Col groaned.

**Author's Note:** Wow, uh… hmm… exactly one year since the last update. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! But things just kept popping up and then the clubs demanded my attention… I know it's not even a proper excuse but it's the best I can do… Withhold forgiveness if you must but if it's any consolation, I've officially stepped down as president from my social club (completed my term; I wasn't fired, mind you). On the down side, my trials and finals are an arm's length away so I can't promise much (again) but I already have the whole story planned out for the next few arcs. Now to find the time to write them… I'm already three pages into the next chapter though. Hopefully… well, with my past record, I can't promise anything…

Same drill: read, evaluate, review. Feel free to flame me a bit for the tardiness. I'll just use it as motivation.

Until next time (whenever that is), good night everyone.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Beings We Are **

By: Lore or mess.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, I just write fanfictions. Anything else that seems familiar is also coincidental.

Warnings: This story contains homosexual relationships. Lot's of 'em. If you are offended by this or in any way feel uncomfortable, you have the choice to continue reading or forego reading this story. The choice is yours. However, I will not entertain any sort of derogatory comments made concerning this issue. This warning has been posted.

**Chapter 5 **

**CSI: Vampires in New York – Part III **

The bald man was bluffing.

Iskare could see the minute nervous twitching of his fingers not hidden by the huge pile of chips before him. The man hadn't even glanced at his cards again since the dealing, opting to stare confidently and stoically at his opponents, but the slightest sheen of perspiration caused by anxiety was present on his forehead. All this was not evident to the rest of the table, however.

On Iskare's right, Mr.Beech was seriously considering the bluff, toying with several chips. He folded.

On the left, Mr.White was frowning. There was already 2.5 million in the pot. Add to it and risk it? No. He folded.

Mr.Banford's fingers stopped twitching. He turned to Iskare expectantly, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Iskare smiled pleasantly back. 'Four hundred years too early, human.'

Iskare moved to call his bluff, placing an additional 2 million into the pot while he was at it, but stopped at the very last second when another being's presence registered in a corner of his consciousness. It was faint at first, steadily approaching until it was near enough for Iskare to discern.

'Well…… well, well!'

An unexpected but exceedingly pleasant turn of events. Iskare concluded that he shall have some entertainment tonight. He decided to fold. Let Mr.Banford have his 2.5 million; there was more to gain by letting the game continue.

The dealer regained all cards and shuffled. Iskare cast his eyes around the table.

Mr.Beech had been bleeding chips for the last half-hour and was probably going to retire from the game soon. Mr.White, on the other hand, had played it safe from the start and had some reserves left but not enough to present a serious challenge. These thoughts effectively flew out of Iskare's mind the moment _he_ finally stepped up to the table.

"May I join you, gentlemen?" a finely cultured voice, product of a refined breeding and upbringing.

As if on cue, Mr.Beech stood and made himself scarce at the table, preferring to spend the remainder of his money at the bar. _He_ took the seat next to the one Mr.Beech had just vacated, placing a nice sum of 5 million worth of chips on the table.

The dealer dealed and Iskare observed _him_.

Shoulder length hair the shade of the sun and blue eyes to shame the deepest sapphires. Oh, they were just as hard and unmoving as the gems as _he_ examined the cards in_ his_ hand dispassionately.

"Bets, gentlemen?"

Mr.Banford hesitated before pushing his 2.5 million from the last game into the pot. _He_ mimicked him, putting half of _his_ chips at the centre of the table. Mr.White gave 1 million. And Iskare… Iskare shoved everything in front of him into the pot. All 10 million of it.

Several soft gasps sounded from around the table where several observers had been watching the game.

_He_ glanced up at Iskare, coolly scrutinizing him for a moment. Then _he_ smiled.

'Oh, that smile could kill. It could break… men, of which I am not.'

_He_ copied him, putting the rest of _his_ money into the pot. Mr.Banford hesitated longer this time before dumping most of his chips into the equation as well, leaving himself with only a meager portion of five hundred thousand. Mr.White folded.

"Reveal your cards, gentlemen."

Mr.Banford went first.

"10 of diamonds, 10 of clubs, 10 of hearts, 7 of clubs, 7 of diamonds. Mr.Banford has a _full house_."

Iskare upturned his cards.

"5 of spades, 4 of spades, 3 of spades, 2 of spades and ace of spades. Mr.Basil has a _straight flush_."

With that beguiling smile still on _his_ face, _he_ flipped his cards over elegantly and leaned back to watch with satisfaction.

"7 of hearts, 6 of hearts, 5 of hearts, 4 of hearts and 3 of hearts. It is a _straight flush_ with higher rank than that of Mr.Basil's. This round goes to Mr.Church."

Mr.Banford groans miserably, hanging his head.

'Impressive…'

Iskare caught _his_ eye and rose with meaning before leaving the table without another word. Even with _his_ silent footsteps, Iskare did not need to look behind to know that he was being followed as hinted.

They walked with distance between them, seemingly crossing the threshold of the casino as two strangers. Iskare led _him_ to the side, away from the prying eyes of the patrons before stopping to whisper a few words to his guards. Then, without waiting for _him_ to catch up, he turned off into a partially concealed corridor, one which led to his office beyond an ascending staircase. Sliding into his usual place behind the large oak desk, Iskare waited.

A few moments later, the door opened and _he_ stepped into the office. Iskare smiled.

"Hello, Julian."

Julian smiled back warmly. "I see you've redecorated." The vampire eyed the large, conspicuous new set of communication and entertainment devices on the right of his office.

Iskare chuckled. "Yes, well. A change of view sometimes does wonders for the mind. Especially since nothing _down there_ ever changes."

Julian moved towards the tilted glass panels which made up the entire west wall of the office, overlooking the bright and boisterous casino beneath them. The noise didn't penetrate through the thick glass and the air inside the dark office was cold and still.

Iskare watched him.

The vampire's blond hair was tied back loosely at the nape ofhis neck with a leather band and he was wearing a deep, grayish blue suit from Valentino's latest collection. Iskare would know, he had one himself.

Getting up, Iskare walked over to the liquor cabinet on his right and poured two glasses of _Vinho do Porto _from a specially reserved bottle. He knew the vintage port was Julian's favourite. Picking up both glasses, he sauntered over to his guest, who seemed perfectly content to simply stand relaxed at the observation panels, watching the casino's patrons squander their money on incredulous bets at the tables. He turned when Iskare presented a glass to him.

"1873. A good year. Heineken's brewery was officially named, Napolean died, Spain became a republic, and Central Park was officially completed. It doesn't get any better than that."

Julian took the glass gratefully. The ruby liquid caught the brilliant lights from the casino ceiling and shone a bright crimson. Coupled with his guest's identity, it was easy for Iskare to imagine it as blood as the vampire raised it to his lips.

Iskare continued to watch Julian as he savoured the sweet taste of the port, rolling it in his mouth slowly. A low hum of appreciation came from his guest. It was gratification enough.

"How are you, Samuel?"

"Professionally? Flourishing. Personally? Content." Iskare took a small sip of the liquor. "I found a new toy to amuse myself with. Hopefully it'll last long enough for me to waste a significant amount of time this time."

Walking back to his desk, he settled into his chair while Julian took one of the two plush armchairs in front of it.

"And you? I haven't heard from you since… last Christmas. How goes your son? He should be seven now, if I recall correctly." — 'Yes, the young protégé. I should be meeting him soon.'

"He is advancing quickly and is doing very well. He'll be attending the Southeil Institute this fall. And Col is doing well too."

Here, Iskare smirked good-humoredly. "Ah yes, your other half. It's been, what? Two years? I assume he's been behaving himself."

"That and then some." came the cryptic reply.

It was nice, thought Iskare fondly, to have this sort of conversation once in a while. He and his guest both knew they were just stalling, using pleasantries as a distraction, but they enjoyed it anyway. Because that was what old friends did.

Then the moment for serious conversation came all too soon as the smile slowly slipped away from the vampire's face.

"Have you watched the news lately, Samuel?" the deceptively light tone had a solemn undercurrent to it.

"What's there to see? The humans have very little interesting things to say, if any at all and most of it, I hear from my boys anyway." Iskare replied lightly. He was aware that he was sub-consciously fishing for information.

"Well, I assumed that a sociopath with an occult fetish would have garnered at least a fraction of your attention." His friend explained dismissively. Then, he looked at him somberly. "Have you heard anything?"

Iskare gave Julian an incredulous look at the implications hidden behind that question, assuming he'd heard the vampire right, before slowly schooling his features into a neutral stare. "Not as such. But back a week ago, there was a fight at Ne-Gate. A werewolf pup and vampling. I wasn't too interested in the story; fights between those two species aren't uncommon. I just don't tolerate them in my club. But basically, insults flew and claws and fangs entered the fight. My boys beat them back into shape before they did any real damage. Turns out, the pup was accusing the vampling of risking exposure and the fledgling essentially called the pup an idiot for even harbouring thoughts that the vampires were in any way involved with 'petty human crimes'." Iskare cast Julian a searching look. "I agree with him. Vampires _are_ above that, aren't they, Julian?"

The vampire's expression was unreadable. "Most of the time. There are exceptions though."

Iskare leaned forward on his desk, eyes narrowing speculatively. "What is going on, my friend?"

Iskare was, of course, aware of the on-going murder investigation on the so-called 'Vampiric Murderer'. He just hadn't given it much thought besides classifying it as another example of peculiar human behavior. To have Julian personally come inquire him about it was as unexpected as it was shocking. What would a seven century year old vampire have anything to do with it?

A soft sigh escaped his friend's lips. "These murders… keep leading back to me. I'm almost certain that they are the doings of a human—"

"— yet you suspect an ulterior motive." It would certainly explain his interest.

Julian gave him a long look and nodded.

"And even if they're not part of a ploy against me, the New York Police Department has put both feet into my home more than once already. Frankly, I'm quite annoyed with the situation and would like it resolved as soon as possible."

Iskare leaned back in thought. "Well, if it's any consolation, my brethren are not dumb enough to tempt fate like that. And while I can't say much for the other species, the wild-halves would chance too great a risk to lash out like this while the fae and elf-kind just don't care enough to do much around the humans most of the time. That ought to help narrow down your search to some extent. I'll keep my ears open for anything else that comes along if you'd like."

Julian nodded and uttered a soft thanks for his aid. They continued to talk about other matters, mostly just addressing the things they'd left off the last time they spoke. It was well past their third glass of port before Julian stood to leave.

"I'll probably be bringing Leifr around to meet you sometime next month, after this whole affair has blown over."

Iskare smiled gleefully. "Finally, the fêted son! You've painted me a very fascinating portrait of him in my mind. He'll reach his one year mark soon, yes? His powers should stabilize completely by then if they hadn't already. I look forward to meeting him." Then, he leveled a questioning look at Julian. "Are you confident this little nuisance will be resolved by then?"

Julian smiled in response, a glint in his eyes. "I'll _make_ it be."

'Typically Julian, as usual'

It was the end of their discussion. Iskare saw Julian to the door, a warm smile on his face. It was always nice to have a friend visit, especially one who's known him for a good portion of his life. Then the door opened with more force than that exerted by Julian and the blonde vampire came face to face with a brunette man on the other side.

'Well!... Isn't today just full of surprises?'

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

Julian eyed the man in front of him. Golden brown coloured hair, soft, kind chocolate eyes which hardened slightly when they locked with his and a pleasantly pale complexion. He was an attractive man. Not overtly so but enough to garner some second or third looks. However, that wasn't what caught the vampire's attention.

The air around the man _tingled._ It was charged and it was alive. It was hot, cold and soothing at the same time. An aura of _calm—innocence—light—comfort—virtue—kindness_ coated him, shrouding him like a thick blanket.

Julian immediately knew what he was.

'An angel? What's an angel doing here?'

Glancing back at Samuel, Julian could see that he was just as surprised yet pleased with the angel's presence.

"Ah, Deangelo! Do come in. Julian was just leaving."

'Oh, the irony.' thought Julian amusedly, glancing discreetly between the two. 'I never thought I'd see the day an angel willingly comes knocking on the door of a demon.' And he didn't miss the veiled but distinct purring quality to his friend's voice either.

Hiding his amused smile, Julian nodded in parting to Samuel, side-stepped the angel — Deangelo — who continued to eye him reservedly, and left.

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

Deangelo eyed the man in front of him. Shoulder length blond hair tied back with a leather band, deep blue eyes and a complexion paler than what was normal. He was a disgustingly gorgeous man, with nearly every feature of his face aimed towards enhancing that beauty. Deangelo was even more put off when he realized that he couldn't see the tell-tale signs of post-plastic surgery. It was simply undue to have someone be so attractive. Men have died, _killed_ for lesser reasons. However, that was not what unnerved him about this man.

The air around him was _intoxicating_. It was silky and downy. A bone-melting comfort spiced with an odd compulsion, urging everyone around to simply fall on their knees and worship him. It was soothing, it was rousing, and it was sexual.

Deangelo immediately knew that he was not human.

Glancing at Samuel beyond the blonde man, Deangelo could see that, despite the present non-human company, the demon was well pleased to see him.

"Ah, Deangelo! Do come in. Julian was just leaving."

'Julian, huh?' Deangelo thought it a fitting name. He would bet that the man was either from an immortal or long living species too.

The non-human glanced between him and Samuel, the corner of his lips twitching slightly at something he thought amusing. Then he nodded to Samuel and departed, stepping a little to the side to prevent entering Deangelo's personal space.

'At least he's outwardly considerate, which is more than what can be said about some people.'

Deangelo watched him leave, eyes trained in his direction even as he made his way into Samuel's office. He kept his head turned facing the door even after Samuel had closed it behind him.

"I hadn't expected you back till next week. Has something come up?"

Deangelo effectively ignored Samuel's question with one of his own. "Who was that?"

Samuel had settled into his chair at his desk by then, which brought the angel's attention to the two, mostly empty, glasses of liquor on it.

"Just an old friend, visiting." The demon pinned him with a suggestive stare. "Jealous?"

Deangelo cast Samuel a cool look. "Not in the least."

The casino owner sighed theatrically, putting an exaggerated dejected expression on his face. "Yes, I suppose it was too much to hope for from an angel." Then he sobered. Placing both his elbows on the desk and stapling his fingers in front of his lips, he pierced Deangelo with a keen stare.

"So what can I do for you?"

Deangelo felt a spark of irritation form in his chest. They both knew what he was here for. Samuel was just playing coy. But the angel squished what little negative emotion he possessed at the moment and named his price.

"A hundred thousand."

Samuel raised an astonished eyebrow. "A hundred grand? That's a lot of money."

'Not for you, it isn't.'

Deangelo crossed his arms and leaned his weight back on one leg, leveling a haughty look at the demon. "A hundred thousand. Three days. I'll make it worth your money."

Samuel said nothing for a moment, scrutinizing him severely. Then he smiled predatorily, sharpened canines making him look feral.

"Done."

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

"Wow."

Lindsay stared at the statue. The absolutely stunning statue. The work on the wood was beautifully executed and the sheer details were beyond astonishing. Accordingly, she was beyond slightly agape. Beside her, Danny was in a similar condition, though it was due to a completely different reason. Looking at the rest of the art pieces, he was more overwhelmed by the total amount of processing he would have to do as compared to the wooden carving's supposed magnificence.

"I thought Mac said he was going to confiscate evidence, not art-shopping." Lindsay wondered absently.

"We were."

Both CSIs turned as Mac entered the room.

"The suspect is an artist, as I'm sure you've guessed by now, and _that_ was taken from his apartment." Mac gestured toward the carving.

"Oh." Lindsay turned back to the statue. "Still, it's a real good embodiment of the Virgin Mary. I mean, look at it!"

Silence.

"…… Lindsay, that's not Mary. It's a representation of the artist's boyfriend."

Now, Lindsay stared at Mac instead. The room was still until Danny gave a (rather undignified) flabbergasted squawk, one finger pointing accusingly at the wooden figurine.

"You mean she's a _he_?!"

Mac pursed his lips in an affirmative grimace, not quite hiding all his amusement at Danny's staggered expression.

"Danny, I know it's going to take a while so I want you to start processing immediately." Ignoring the resulting dismayed look, the lead detective turned to his female subordinate. "You wanted to see me, Lindsay?"

Snapping out of her daze, Lindsay remembered the file in her hands. "Yes. I wanted to tell you that I analyzed the paint smear I found, and it was only on the surface of the material. I did a reproduction and no matter how I simulated the transfer, only one method produced that type of smudge; The jacket had brushed against the paint when it was already completely dry."

'Completely dry… Maybe Windchurch was right about the sold paintings.'

Glancing up and seeing Lindsay looking at him expectantly, he nodded to indicate approval.

"Thank you, Lindsay."

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

"No." was the flat answer.

Mac watched as Miss Clayman's expression cooled.

"No, I will not surrender a list of my client's patrons."

The detective would later reflect that everything had gone downhill from there.

He and Flack had gone to Clayman Galleries earlier that day to see Venus Clayman, Col Hargrea's art dealer. From what they could see when they arrived, Miss Clayman dealt not only in paintings, though that seemed to be her primary expertise, but many other forms of art as well. The Maxwell & Teetle building, which had gone into abandon after the business went bankrupt in the late 1970s, had been given a complete makeover in 1980 to form what was now two great, interlinked galleries showcasing hundreds of art pieces, from acrylic on canvas to papier mache sculptures to ancient Roman pillars. Venus Clayman, then a fresh graduate from the New York University College of Arts and Science, had started the business straight out of varsity using her family inheritance. Within two years, it had evolved to become one of the most remarked art galleries in New York, boasting works of masters obscured or long forgotten.

Whatever Mac had been expecting when he arrived at the galleries with Flack, it was not a warm reception and escort to Miss Clayman's office. The assistant — Susan — had been most accommodating and treated them like guests at a hotel rather than police officers. Venus Clayman herself was even more unexpected. With short, bleached, Alice-blue hair which fell around her face in messy, wavy spikes, pine green eyes and skin which has seen far too little sunlight, she was perhaps the last person he would have expected to be the founder of a famous art gallery.

Throughout his perusal of her person, Miss Clayman had seen highly amused by his reaction. Mac surmised that she'd received the same sort of consideration far too many times to be concerned.

"I've had many people visit my gallery over the years, both for official business and otherwise. But I must say this is the first time the NYPD has stepped into my haven with purposes other than to enjoy art." She gave them both a polite yet curious once-over. "Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am Venus Clayman. How may I help you?"

"Detective Donald Flack and this is Detective Mac Taylor. We're hoping you would help us with the investigation of an on-going case."

Miss Clayman smiled pleasantly. "Let us discuss then. Please, sit." She motioned to the two black suede chairs in front of her desk as she moved to her own seat behind it. On her desk, several trinkets made of different materials and baring the Clayman Galleries signature logo 'CG' were arranged in a peculiar order, with no regard as to size or purpose. Mac noticed that a nice, silver letter opener was placed next to a convoluted-looking piece of pewter paper weight molded into the shape of a meld of several objects; a pair of perfectly round spectacles, a steel-knuckled glove, a steering wheel, a knitting needle, a rounded bell, a star, and …… was that a scalpel?

"We've been told that you are the dealer for an artist named Col Hargrea?"

"Col? Yes, I've been representing him for several years now… three, in fact. He is a remarkable artist. You seldom find someone with as much passion and love for art as he does. And it shows in his pieces. A few of them are currently being displayed in the gallery if you're interested, detectives."

"No, we are quite acquainted with his work—"

"Is that so? A fellow admirer, then? Curious, which ones are you referring to?"

"Uh…" Flack faltered slightly at being cut off in mid-sentence. "Miss Clayman, how well do you know Mr.Hargrea?"

She smiled apologetically. "Not so well, I'm afraid. We only meet when he brings in his newest pieces and most of our conversation has to do with work. I am ashamed to say that I do not even know anything about his family or his life outside that of an artist's."

"Has he shown any unusual behavior lately? Acted odd in any way?"

Miss Clayman looked thoughtful. "… Not that I can recall. Last I saw him, it was two weeks ago, and he seemed happy about an upcoming celebration with his family. We spoke some, but other than that, it was a routine delivery."

"How often does he make these 'deliveries'?"

She frowned at the emphasis. "Once every one to two weeks. Is Col in some sort of trouble, detectives?"

"We are trying to determine that. I've heard that Mr.Hargrea specializes in using Lapis Lazuli paint in his works. Does the gallery have any other article with that property?" asked Mac.

"Currently, yes, we have several. The substance was quite a popular one during the medieval times up till the Renaissance period so one can expect quite a few antique art pieces to have incorporated Lapis Lazuli in them."

"Has any such paintings been sold recently?"

"No, and I am quite certain of that. I'm sure you both know that Lapis Lazuli is a precious stone and thus the cost would be high for any art piece which uses it in its making. The occurrence of a sale of such a piece is highly infrequent."

"How likely is it then, besides the conventional methods, for someone to get their hands on such a painting?" asked Flack.

"Very unlikely." Miss Clayman's expression was serious as she explained. "Because of the high price, any and all pieces with a significant amount of Lapis Lazuli in them are kept in a safe, which is opened only for private viewing and auctions. The ones on display in the gallery are continuously under heavy surveillance."

"So you're saying that the only way someone could have possession of one was if they bought it?" Flack simplified. Miss Clayman nodded.

Mac and Flack shared a glance. "Miss Clayman, we'd a like a list of all the Lapis Lazuli paintings your gallery has ever sold along with the names of the people who'd bought them."

Miss Clayman spent a moment looking scandalized. "I can't give out information like that, NYPD or not!"

"Miss Clayman," Flack leaned forward slightly. "this is a multiple murder investigation and one of those buyers might be a suspect. We need the list to eliminate them from the search and narrow down our options."

"Still, it's part of my dealer-client confidentiality agreement. I'm sorry detectives, but I can't help you."

Mac grimaced. They needed that list. "Miss Clayman, we already have a confiscation warrant which enables us to take anything we need from Col Hargrea. Even if you cannot give us the list of sold Lapis Lazuli artworks, we still need a list of all the people who'd bought Mr.Hargrea's works before. If you refuse to comply, we may have to hold you under charges of interfering with police investigation."

"No." was the flat answer.

Mac watched as Miss Clayman's expression cooled.

"No, I will not surrender a list of my client's patrons. Or any other list for that matter."

"_And neither does she need to." _

All three heads swiveled towards the door where a man stood regally in a dark brown suit, black briefcase in hand. His umber-brown hair was combed back neatly and his chilly grey eyes surveyed the two detectives. Mac had the distinct impression that he and Flack had both been found wanting, though the stranger's face betrayed nothing.

"And who, exactly, would you be?" asked Flack, irritated. Mac thought the younger man had probably gathered the same impression as he.

The stranger walked towards Miss Clayman's desk, laying his briefcase down.

"My name is Hadrian Kincaid. I am representing Misters Col Hargrea and Julian Windchurch." Flipping open his briefcase, he took out a thin stack of papers and handed them to Mac.

"As of this morning, your warrant to impound my client's possessions has been annulled. The evidence on which you justified your investigation upon his person was circumstantial at best. While Mr.Windchurch may be the only person to officially import Lapis Lazuli oil paint from Italy, it is not uncommon for suppliers to sell their commodities to persons off the record. This, thus, eliminates my clients from being the sole possessors of the paint. Furthermore, both my clients had solid alibis at the time of the murders and there is concrete evidence that none of the three victims had even once entered my clients' home. I've reviewed the security footages at the Dakota and I invite you to do the same if you do not trust my word for it."

Mac sat silent. Neither Flack nor he were able to get a word in edgewise while the lawyer efficiently ripped their painstakingly put-together investigation to pieces.

"There was a high possibility that the victim could have acquired the paint transfer from Mr.Hargrea's sold works or elsewhere. There exist so many variables which you did not take into account when you issued the warrant and that is unacceptable. You had no right to confiscate anything from my client and neither do you have any power to make Miss Clayman betray the confidence her patrons invest in her."

Mac had nothing to say in rebuttal. It was true that they had assumed in favour of Hargrea being implied in the crime because, as they were, they had little leads left. Not to say that they had wanted him to be guilty, but they were grasping at straws. And like straws, they tend to fall between one's fingers. Especially when pesky but quick-witted lawyers like Kincaid showed up. Beside him, Flack's fists were stapled tightly and the younger detective wasn't quite successful at hiding his distaste from his face.

"I will require you to return my client's possessions as soon as possible. Expect movers at the police department headquarters tomorrow."

Flack gave up the attempt to conceal his annoyance from his face and Mac could feel a frown tugging at his own lips. Kincaid easily dismissed them from his attention and turned his gaze towards Miss Clayman. The lawyer gave a curt, cryptic nod to the art dealer which was returned in the same manner. And that's when Mac realized.

They've been had.

Miss Clayman had no intention of helping them whatsoever from the start. She was merely delaying them with lengthy explanations to buy time for the lawyer's arrival. The sly woman.

Accepting that they had lost this round, Mac stood to leave. "We'll be back, Mr.Kincaid. And next time, the warrant won't be as easy to dismiss."

"I look forward to it." The lawyer's face was a mask of self-assurance, bordering on arrogance and Mac might have been tempted to prove him wrong just for the sake of it, if not for the spark of something deeper he saw in Kincaid's eyes. A spark of a predator, of amusement, of someone who held all the cards and knew it.

Mac grimaced and left, Flack dutifully behind him.

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

"For a moment there, I thought you weren't going to make it." Venus smiled easily at Hadrian as he shifted some things around in his briefcase before snapping it shut.

"My American counterparts are not as efficient as my regular aides. The final conclusion of the review on The Dakota's footages took longer than I predicted. I regret that I made you uncertain."

Venus waved her hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. I would have fought tooth and nail to retain those lists anyway. No one messes with _my_ clients and friends, not if they're not… ah… of certain traits." She smiled knowingly at Hadrian. "Still, you are quite amazing to have done this much in one day. I am impressed."

"It is in our interest to conclude this investigation as quickly as possible. Or at the very least, steer it away from implicating my clients." He extended a card to her. "This is my contact number. If the department bothers you again, do not hesitate to call. Though I doubt they will have much chance of doing so. Thank you for your assistance, Miss Clayman."

Venus watched the stoic vampire leave her office with an amused smile.

'Mother was right. The good ones are always either taken or dead.'

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

Leifr stared at the trio sitting at the dining table with serious expressions on their faces. Julian seemed to be thinking deeply as he looked over a piece of paper while Col leafed through the documents scattered haphazardly on the mahogany surface. The lawyer, Hadrian, was writing something silently next to Col who was sitting opposite Julian. The atmosphere was severe and caused little prickly things to run down Leifr's back.

"Um… Father, should I help?"

"That's alright, Leifr. You may have the day off from your studies today, but do remember to practice your throws. I'll have a look at them tonight." said Julian absently.

"Okay."

Leifr continued to stare at them. The vampire lawyer from England had appeared at their doorstep perhaps less than an hour ago and, after some short greetings, had proceeded to stack piles of documents on the dining table while explaining the extent of the case to his parents. Now, they were mostly going through the massive heap of information which Hadrian and his parents had managed to procure during the short time between now and the phone call yesterday. Casting the papers a narrow-eyed glance, Leifr figured that it must have taken the three vampires the entire night last night (disregarding the time difference for Hadrian) to come up with all that info.

"Hadrian, you realize that all three victims had at least some sort of connection with art? Charles Wentley worked at a hardware store which, as we know, coincidentally serves a number of art students and artists. Seth Carwin's mother commented here that her son regularly frequented art centres during his free time. And Gus Peterson is an art student from a prestigious art school." commented Julian.

"It's primarily why the humans were so fixated on associating Col with the murders. It would have wrapped the investigation up nicely for them." replied Hadrian without skipping a beat.

Col raised one indignant eyebrow. "Well, the role of scapegoat is one which I refuse to play. And if the humans insist on being arses, _someone_ is going to get hurt."

"While I agree with you to a certain degree, if that ever happens, the American council of vampires will undoubtedly be alerted. Should we decide to take things into our own hands, we would have to be discreet and not leave traces which other vampire investigators might be able to discern. Personally, I would not advise this course of action." stated Hadrian placidly, looking as though he hadn't just spoken about covert operations and cover-ups designed to avoid detection from the human government as well as the American vampire council.

'Huh, Dad was right. He's a real piece of work.'

"The American human government has an annoying tendency to keep records of everything. It would be distinctly difficult to erase these records and the memories from the people involved. We would not have these problems if this investigation was done in, say, Malaysia, where most evidence is perpetually prone to misquoting or mis-documentation. But as it is, it would be less of a hassle in the long run to simply let the humans think they had solved the mystery all by themselves." finished Hadrian.

"So we play the nannies? Pushing them in the right direction, taking obstacles out of their paths and picking them up when they fall?" asked Col, whose mordant expression indicated just how much that idea appealed to him.

"If you do not wish to do four times the work, yes. And I _have_ calculated that from past experience." replied Hadrian evenly.

A tick developed in Col's left eyebrow. Leifr wisely pivoted and left the room, mentally wishing them luck and patience. Those little prickly things going up and down his back had just turned slightly uncomfortable.

— _CSI: Vampires in New York —_

Three days later, another body was discovered.

**Author's Notes:** Yes! A new chapter. After less than half a month's wait. That's good, isn't it? This chapter is in celebration of the end of my trials. They sucked. So you shouldn't set your hopes too high for an update again soon. I probably won't have the time to even sleep properly before my finals. On the other hand, we see several OCs and another borrowed character here. Who can spot him/her? The next chapter will give Leifr plenty of action and screen time plus lots of lovin'. Want it? Remember to leave a review. It motivates me.

Until next time, good night everyone.


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